MAY, 1955 AMAZING STORIES VOL. 29 NO
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AMAZING STORIES, Vol. 29, No. 3, May 1955, is published bi-monthly by the Ziff-Davis Publishing
Company, William B. Ziff, Chairman of the Board (1946-1953), at 64 E. Lake St., Chicago 1, Illinois.
Entered as second-class matter at Post Office at Chicago, III. Subscription rates: U. S. and possessions
and Canada $4.00 for 12 issues; Pan American Union Countries $4.50; all other foreign countries $5.00.
AMAZIHG
STORIES
KEG. U. S. PAT. OFF.
ZIFF-DAVIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
Williom B. Ziff (1698-1953) Founder
Editorial and Executive Offices
366 Madison Avenue
New York 17, New York
President
B. G. DAVIS
Vice Presidents —
H. J. MORGANROTH
MICHAEL H. FROELICH
Circulation Manager
MICHAEL Ml CHAELSON
Secretary-Treasurer
G. E. CARNEY
Art Director
ALBERT GRUEN
MAY 1955
VOLUME 29 NUMBER 3
CONTENTS
THE CHAINED MAN
By P. F. Costello * 6
KING OF THE BLACK SUNRISE
By Milton Lesser 32
THE COSMIC FRAME
By Paul W. Foirman 62
HOW THE LAND LIES!
By Charles Felstead B2
THE SIREN FROM CNOSSUS
By Bedell Stuart 92
DEPARTMENTS
THE OBSERVATORY
By The Editor 4
THE REVOLVING FAN
By Roger De Solo 75
THE SPECTROSCOPE
By Yilliers Gerson 114
. . . OR SO YOU SAY
By The Readers 118
IT TAKES ALL KINDS
A Cartoon Portfolio 129
¥
Cover: EDWARD VALIGURSKY
Editor Art Editor
HOWARD BROWNE HERBERT We ROGOFF
*
Copyright 1955 by tha Ziff^DavIt Company. All rights reserved.
the ohs^^a\Ory
b y Th e E d I f o r
• With this column back in the pages of Amazing Stories, the
cycle is now complete. Editorial, fanzine reviews, book re-
views and a long, long department for letters from the readers.
Stories now have a strong accent on action, newly discovered
galaxies are conquered, whole solar systems are blown to bits,
and love rears its beautiful head from one end of the universe
to the other. Just like in the golden days of the old pulps;
better written and with better illustrations, of course, and
appearing in a neater package than the old-style ragged-edge
magazines of the forties.
Bill McGivern dropped by for lunch one day last week, just
before he and his family took off for a year in Europe. You
remember Bill; he and his good friend David Wright O’Brien
wrote literally hundreds of top science-fiction and fantasy
yarns for the Ziff-Davis magazines before the war. Dave died
in action in December, 1944 — but Bill came back to continue
his career. His science-fiction and fantasy stories became few
and far between as his interest turned more and more to the
detective and suspense markets. You’ve seen the results in
such magazines as The Saturday Evening Post, Collier’s and
Cosmopolitan; in such motion pictures — based on his novels —
as “The Big Heat’’, “Rogue Cop’’, “Shield for Murder’’, and an
upcoming picture with Alan Ladd.
Anyway, we got to talking about the good old days, when
writing greats such as Don Wilcox (now living in Kansas and
with a novel about to appear under the Little, Brown im-
print) ; Robert Moore Williams, who is still turning out some
of the best work in the field; Berkeley Livingston, at present
almost inactive as a writer; Chester (jeier, no longer writing;
4
LeRoy Yerxa, who died of a heart attack seven or eight years
ago ; and a host of others. In those days Ray Palmer filled the
editor’s chair — and while Ray was, and is, a small guy physi-
cally, nobody ever filled the chair as well. A writer would drop
in on Ray and say, “I’m through, done, washed up! Can’t
think of a plot newer than ‘Little Red Riding Hood.’ ” Ray
would lean back and put his feet up and say something like:
“Little Red Riding Hood, eh? Okay, let’s say there’s a good-
looking gal named Gloria Hood. She’s got red hair, so her
nickname is ‘Red.’ The Federation of Planets is at war with
another solar system on the other side of the galaxy, you see,
and the Feds have to get a short-wave set to their spies in
the enemy camp. So Red, being an innocent-looking, frail-type
gal, is hired to smuggle the set in, disguising it as a basket of
goodies. . . .’’ Half an hour later the writer was back at his
typewriter, grinding out copy, a beatific smile wreathing his
space-weathered features.
It’s not like that around these editorial offices any more.
For one thing, the days when Amazing Stories ran 276 pages
an issue are gone — probably forever. Too, another crop of
writers came into the scene. Many of them scorned the bang-
bang type of science-fiction. They were exponents of the social
significance theme, of the underplayed conflict, of the develop-
ment of character through adversity. Fandom, they said —
with some justification — was growing up, and what was inter-
esting science-fiction ten years ago no longer could hold a
reader’s attention. The editors listened and believed — and the
old-time action story faded from the scene. The boys who
wrote such material tried switching to the new concepts — or
quit writing altogether. No more dropping around to the
editor for a fast plot ; the new writers had their own ideas of
what constituted science-fiction and would resent any editorial
meddling.
Well, we’ve changed all that. We’ve had to. The faithful of
fandom tried their best to take to the new school of future
fiction, but slowly they began to turn away from it. Sales
figures told what was taking place. It began to dawn on this
editor that he had been wrong to take from Amazing Stories
the very things that made it the leader in the field. It meant
that changes were in order — and you’ll find those changes in
this, and future issues. — HB
5
The
CHAINED
MAN
By P. F. COSTELLO
A pretty girl, a handsome man,
a space ship. Bundle them all
together — and call the policel
T he man snubbed out his
cigarette and bent down
to kiss the beautiful, dark,
cat-like woman.
“It’s been wonderful, sweet-
heart,” he said huskily. “No
man ever had such a bride. No
husband was ever so lucky.”
The woman smiled lazily,
moved like a young panther
toward the thick quartz port.
“Where are we, darling?” she
asked.
“Who cares? So far as I’m
concerned. I’m out in space on
a honeymoon with my wife.
The details of speed, orbit, and
location, I’m happy to leave to
your Nigel.”
The woman continued to
1 Lf.
6
7
smile. “Nigel — he is a prize,
isn’t he? I think I see a small
planet down there. Let’s call
him and ask him where we
are.”
“Certainly, my darling.”
A few moments later, Nigel
entered the cabin, bowed with
a touch of deference, and
waited quietly. The man look-
ed him over with marked
approval. A fine Terran speci-
man : blond, well-muscled,
handsome; but far more im-
portant, an ideal servant and
an amazingly competent pi-
lot. Strange that Nigel had
never aspired to better things.
The woman said, “Nigel —
be a dear and tell us exactly
where we are. That planet out
there for instance — is it in-
habited?”
“It does not appear to be,
madam.”
The eyes of the woman and
the pilot met for an instant.
The woman said, “Then what
are we waiting for?”
Nigel smiled, doubled one
fist and rubbed it in the palm
of the other. “I know what
I’ve been waiting for— a
chance to hit this supercilious
slob.”
The husband’s eyes wid-
ened. “What in — ”
Nigel took one quick step
and hit him in the stomach.
The husband gagged and bent
forward. Nigel, timing his
movement to a nicety, kicked
him squarely in the mouth.
The husband emitted a gar-
bled scream. Nigel straight-
ened and smashed a fist into
his bloody face. The husband
back-pedalled and fell cring-
ing against the wall. He
turned desperate eyes toward
his wife.
The woman lay back on the
lounge, a semi-transparent
robe scarcely hiding the de-
tails of her great physical
beauty. She still smiled lazily,
but now there was a look of
relish in her eyes and she
seemed more than ever like a
sleek, gorgeous cat.
Nigel picked the fallen man
up and hit him again. As the
husband fell to the floor, Nigel
wiped blood from his knuckles
and kicked out viciously.
Blood flowed from the hus-
band’s mouth.
The woman, said, “Control
yourself, darling.” She spoke
to Nigel as though admonish-
ing a small child for a minor
infraction. “You don’t want to
kill him and miss the best
part, do you?”
“No. Of course not. I’ll set
the ship down.”
While the wife stretched
languidly and the husband,
now unable to speak, ques-
tioned and pleaded with his
eyes, Nigel brought the ship
8
AMAZING STORIES
down on the surface of the
wild, deserted planet and re-
turned to the honeymoon
cabin.
“You have the chains
ready?” the woman asked.
“I opened the lock and
tossed them out.”
She shrugged. “Well, there
he is. Take him.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“I’ll watch from the port.
The harsh atmosphere of
these outer spheres irritates
my throat.”
“Very well.” Nigel picked
up the husband and carried
him like a limp doll to the
port. The woman moved to the
window and looked out, smil-
ing, as Nigel chained the hus-
band to a rock. When the job
was completed, he knelt down
and carefully examined the
chains; the prisoner’s bound
hands and feet moved feebly.
Nigel straightened and
looked down at the man, en-
joying the agony of fear in
the luckless one’s eyes; grin-
ning in appreci3.tion as the
husband strove to speak, to
beg. Then Nigel turned and
reboarded the ship.
The lock was closed and the
two remaining occupants of
the ship stood for a while at
the port looking out at Nigel’s
handiwork.
The woman slid a beautiful
arm over Nigel’s great shoul-
ders and said, “He looks so
full of agony, doesn’t he?”
“Observe the terror in his
eyes.”
“And you do enjoy it so.”
Nigel was in the midst of
a deep emotional pleasure.
“Nothing could be sweeter.
The buildup is so perfect.
Watching him make love to
you as we ride the orbit;
knowing what goes on in here
through the hours.”
“You’re a darling,” the
woman purred.
“How much did we get?”
“This was a fat one. Half
a million units.”
“Then we can quit business
for a while — take a little time
off.”
She slid into his arms. “We
can — but do you want to?”
He gripped her shoulders.
“No! No — of course not!
Business is more fun.”
A few minutes later, she
drew her face away from his
to ask, “And do you know why
it’s so wonderful?”
“Is there a specific reason?”
“Of course. It’s because,
during my courtship and mar-
riage and honeymoon with
these fools, you are forced to
practice restraint until the
mind and body — your every
emotion — begins screaming;
shrieking for vengeance — de-
manding me.”
“Stop talking and kiss me.”
THE CHAINED AfiAN
9
Her chuckle was the pur-
ring of a huge cat.
He was a lean, whiskered
space rover and he came
down to the planet in a bat-
tered old one-jet job that he
talked to as a companion be-
cause, in truth, she was the
only companion he had.
“Now, that’s a likely look-
ing lump of rock, honey. Real
promising. It just might be
the one we’ve hunted all these
years.” He arced down, leaned
the ship back on her tail, and
brought her in.
“Only takes one strike,
honey. Just one to give us a
skyhouse in Nevada and a
country place in the Martian
Gardens.” He opened the air
lock and tested the atmosphere
through an old piece of hose.
He pondered like a housewife
tasting the batter for a cake.
“Good air, honey. Coarse, but
good.” He grinned suddenly.
“You know? I got a hunch
we’ve made the big find of the
Century!”
He opened the inner lock
and went out with his counter
hanging from one shoulder
and his spectroscope from the
other. “Be right back, honey.
You wait. I’ll bring you the
news.”
But he did not go far.
Breasting the first rise, he
stopped suddenly and stared
down at the remains of a
tragedy that lay before him.
He looked for a while, then
began slowly circling the spot,
careful not to move too close.
He shook his head sadly.
“Too, bad. Terrible thing.
Now who do you suppose’d be
mean enough to do a thing like
that?”
He went back into the ship,
put down his tools and pulled
the cover off his communica-
tion unit. He frowned and
tugged at one ear. “Haven’t
used this thing in years,
honey. Wonder if it still
works?” He flipped a switch
and heard the hum as the bat-
tery fed in the power. “Sure
hope it works. Wouldn’t want
to get in bad with the FSSA.
They can make it pretty hard
for a man if they take the no-
tion.” He flipped in the trans-
mitter switch. “Well, here
goes,” he muttered, and began
sending.
Fitzhugh Goodbody, Senior
Investigator of the Federated
System Security Arm, was an
ugly little gnome with a head
big enough — according to Bid-
ford Payne, his assistant— to
carry an extra motor for a
space launch. Biddy of course
made no such observation to
Fitz’s face, which was more
than could be said of Fitz, who
often addressed his new as-
10
AMAZING STORIES
sistant as the “million-dollar
half-wit.”
But the two made a good
team, possibly because each
had something the other could
admire — or envy. Biddy ad-
mired and yearned for Fitz’s
brains and ability, while the
latter wondered why such a
magnificent body and physical
good looks was wasted on a
character with a one-cylinder
mind.
Fitzhugh, seated now at his
desk in the Frisco office, look-
ed up suddenly from the book
he was reading and said, “Do
you know there’s a planet in
this galaxy inhabited entirely
by monks?”
Biddy took off the ear-
phones through which he’d
been checking current report
tapes in the hope of finding a
good gory crime, and said, “Is
that a fact?”
“Exactly — a fact — but you
won’t remember it five min-
utes.”
“Why should I?”
“Because no one should in-
sult a fact by forgetting it.
Facts should be respected by
being given room in one’s
memory. That’s the least one
can do for a good, solid fact.”
“But I’m not interested in
monks.”
“This order of penitents
traveled, in 2085, to a small
isolated planet in Virgo and
established themselves as a
self-sufficient unit — tilling the
soil — worshipping God — ”
“No women?”
“Don’t be profane! Of
course no women.”
“How can they be self-suffi-
cient then ? If they were estab-
lished in 2085, they’d all be
dead now, without women
to—”
“They draw fresh volun-
teers from our solar planets.”
“Sounds very dull.”
Fitz sighed. “If you didn’t
have four million units and a
rich father, you might be a
detective some day.”
“Why should my units and
my father stop me ?”
“They make you a dilet-
tante.”
“A which?"
“An amateur — a tourist out
for the ride. You don’t have to
succeed at your profession,
therefore you don’t work very
hard.”
Biddy put down the ear-
phones. “Now look here — ”
The door opened. A clerk
entered and laid a sheet of
paper on Fitz’s desk. “An
outer communication. Just
came in, sir. Self-explana-
tory.”
“Thank you.” Fitz took the
sheet and studied it. The re-
port bore his own assignment
number and was a verbatim
statement of what had gone
THE CHAINED MAN
11
both ways through the ether.
Fitz skipped the location data
and went straight to the mes-
sage.
“Sam Bailey — prospector —
ship Doris — calling FSSA.”
“You have been channeled
to Frisco office — proceed.”
“Set down on this planet to
do a little prospecting — rock
formations looked good —
thought — ”
“Please do not digress."
“All right — found a skele-
ton on said planet.”
“Why should we be inter-
ested?”
“Same has hands and feet
bound — same is chained to a
rock — same must have died
while chained to rock — loca-
tion inside FSSA juris — jur —
the thing looks like your
baby.”
“Please repeat location for
check.”
Fitz laid down the sheet,
looked into space for a while,
then tossed the report to
Biddy. “Get a ship voucher.
Fast job. We should make it
in three days.”
Biddy read the report while
Fitz penciled some notations.
When he finished, Biddy was
scowling. “You mean we’re
going clear to hell and gone
out there just to look at a
skeleton chained to a rock?
Why not tell the old space-coot
to bring it in with him?”
“A fine suggestion. Why
don’t you just run up to the
Chief’s office and tell him?
That way, you’ll get credit.”
“Well, it seems kind of stu-
pid to — ”
“My boy, we are a law-en-
forcement agency. We enforce
the law from here to certain
boundaries of the galaxy.
Every indication of law-break-
ing within those boundaries
requires our personal atten-
tion. If a corpse was reported
out in the hall, would you ask
them to drag it in here in or-
der to save you a walk?”
“But way out in — ”
“The Federation provides
transportation. One of your
duties is to act as my pilot.
Move!”
Biddy moved.
Three and a half Terran
days later, the two men stood
on a small, bleak planet look-
ing down at a chained skele-
ton inside a moulding space-
suit. Fitz shook his head sad-
ly. “It’s amazing how cruel
they can be. A terrible death.”
“Why in hell would anybody
want to do a thing like this ?”
“I wouldn’t know — but I
mean to find out.”
“How?”
Fitz looked thoughtfully at
his assistant. “Detection is a
slow, dogged business ; mainly
a process of elimination.”
12
AMAZING STORIES
“You mean you eliminate
all the people who couldn’t
have done it?’’
“Not exactly. That would
involve some nineteen billion
persons. It would- take too
long.”
Biddy looked around the
bleak scene. “I don’t want to
seem stupid, but being new at
this game, I’m interested.
And I can't see how you could
even begin to find the crim-
inals who did this. They could
be light years away by this
time.”
“A man who had come up
through the ranks would not
take such a defeatest atti-
tude.”
“There you go again. Blam-
ing me and my family for
having a few units.”
“No, blaming your father
for pulling strings. You
should have started in a patrol
ship out in the asteroids along
with the other rookies.”
Biddy’s handsome face
clouded. “I could put in for a
transfer,” he said stiffly.
“No. We’ll play the cards as
they fall. You’re a likable lad.
Pleasant company. That’s
something. Now, how about
getting the pictures?”
While Biddy brought the
photographic equipment from
the ship, Fitz puttered about
with no apparent objective in
view. He silently commended
Biddy for a good covering job
and when his assistant had
completed it, said, “Now, I’d
like a sample of the atmos-
phere and the soil. Fill one of
the compressed air tanks
you’ll find in the ship. You’ll
also find a box for earth and
rock.”
When Biddy had completed
the appointed chores, Fitz
handed him an envelope. “Put
this in with the soil sample.”
“What’s in it?”
“A sample I picked up my-
self.”
“What about the skeleton?”
“That’s your next job. Put
the bones and the chains in
another box and we’ll get back
to civilization.”
On the afternoon of the
fourth day following, Fitz
looked up from his desk in
the Frisco office as Biddy en-
tered. “I believe our criminals
will be found in Baltic City,”
he said.
Biddy put his earphones
down. “That’s on Mars.”
“It was the last I heard.”
There was a frown on
Biddy’s handsome face as he
got up and walked to Fitz’s
desk. “What do you do? Go
into a trance? You came
straight back from the scene
of the crime and sat down at
that desk. You’ve been sitting
there ever since. You didn’t
THE CHAINED MAN
13
even use the phone. Now you
pop your head up and say the
criminals are in Baltic City. It
all smacks of black magic.”
Fitz sighed inwardly, a
little sad at Biddy’s apparent
lack of respect. He charged it
off to the way the wealthy
class brought up their chil-
dren and decided protests
would do no good. He said,
“On the contrary, I have been
quite busy. I’ve been studying
all the reports on the case.”
“I long to be enlightened.”
“Well, analysis of the bones
— mainly the calcium con-
tent — gives us quite a little to
go on. First, the time of the
murder. The condition of the
skeleton checked against the
atmosphere at the scene of the
crime and the soil upon which
it was lying, gives us the
knowledge that such a state
of disintegration would have
been reached in four and one-
half Terran months. We can
safely say the man was
chained down on that planet
during the second week in
June.”
“How do you know it was
a man?”
“That is most elementary.
Measurements of the skeleton
prove it beyond all peradven-
ture doubt.”
“Simple, when you explain
it.”
“Isn’t it? In fact, we have
14
a pretty accurate reconstruct-
ed picture of the victim.”
Fitz handed Biddy a sheet
of paper. The assistant stud-
ied the artist’s handiwork; a
full-length drawing of a
rather stout, middle-aged
man, partially bald, with blue
eyes, sagging jowls, and
slightly protruding teeth. “A
Terran,” Biddy said.
“Exactly.”
“But there are quite a few
Terran males in the galaxy.”
“Further analysis helps us
pin-point this one somewhat.
As you may or may not know,
calcium varies in molecular
structure according to its
source ; so much so that spec-
troscopic-chemico breakdown
tells us this man spent a great
deal of time in southwestern
United States.”
“That covers a lot of terri-
tory.”
“It shows also, that he lived
on Mars.”
“That doesn’t narrow the
search. It widens it.”
“To the contrary. Let’s
bring some logic to bear on
the problem. Mars is quite
some distance from Terra.
The trip back and forth is ex-
pensive. Therefore, we can
assume the man was wealthy.”
“That still leaves us a long
way from Baltic City.”
“It puts us closer. It also
points him directly toward a
AAU2ING STORIES
rendezvous with his two mur-
derers. Knowing he was
wealthy, we take a shot in the
dark and contact Star Lanes,
the luxury space line out of
Frisco, the one a wealthy man
would probably patronize
when going to Mars. Its port,
there, is Baltic City.”
“Wait a minute. How do you
know that two — ”
“We find from Star Lanes
records that five men who fit
our reconstructed picture
went to Baltic City during the
two-month period prior to our
victim’s death. Three of them
returned. That leaves two.”
Biddy waved a protesting
hand. “It seems to me you’re
assuming a hell of a lot. You
haven’t even begun to prove
the murderers ever were in
Baltic City. And you said
two — ”
“Oh, yes. Now let’s look at
the corroborating evidence. I
said there were two killers.
While you were getting sup-
plies from the ship at the
scene of the crime, I snooped
around and found where a
ship had set down nearby.
Now, as any school boy knows,
a space ship sets down on
four fins. I measured the dis-
tances between the four points
of contact with the soil. The
fin-spread of space ships
varies with their size. There-
fore, it was a very simple
thing to prove the ship that
landed was a three-jet, four-
passenger job. As a matter of
fact, it was a Q-47 Space
. Wasp, sold by the Dickinson
Interplanetary Craft Corpora-
tion. The retail price is in the
neighborhood of twenty thou-
sand units.”
Biddy’s look was more re-
spectful. “Fine. How many of
these ships have been sold?"
“About eleven hundred of
that particular model.”
“That leaves some checking
to do;”
“We can narrow it down.
The soil in the envelope I gave
you was from the small pits
left by the tips of the four
fins. Close analysis revealed
microscopic traces of Martian
soil. Luckily, there were
enough of these particles to
get a local comparison. There
is no doubt that the soil came
from the blasting pits in Bal-
tic City.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!"
Biddy said.
“I won’t bore you w;ith any
more details, but of the two
men unaccounted for from the
Star Lane records, one was a
millionaire bachelor named
Patterson. He had only dis-
tant relatives, none of whom
had reason to miss him. Until
proven wrong, I’m spotting
him as our victim.”
THE CHAINED /AAN
15
“Why?”
“Experience, mainly. For
the same reason I think our
criminals are a male and a
female.”
Biddy pondered. “Rich
bachelor. Middle-aged. Hmm.
That I can follow.”
“I’m happy to hear you say
that.”
“And you came all this way
by just sitting at your desk
and using your head!”
“Oh, no. But studying the
results of a great deal of work
by a vast, alert, swiftly-oper-
ating organization.” Fitz
raised his huge, ugly head and
looked at his assistant. “Ah
organization I hope you’ll be
very proud of some not too
distant day.”
“I’m proud of it now. Where
do we go from here?”
“Baltic City, of course.”
Ninety hours later, the su-
perintendent of the mooring
yard at the Baltic City blast
pits walked up to a short, ugly
little man who seemed to be
standing around for no appar-
ent reason. “Anything I can
do for you?”
The man tipped his hat and
gave the superintendent a leer
that was probably meant for
a smile. “I was just looking at
that ship, the Baltic Queen.
Nice lines.”
“It’s a fairish ship.”
“Any chance of its being for
sale?”
“Are you in the market?”
“That would depend on the
price.”
The thought of a possible
commission raised the ship in
the superintendent’s estimate.
“Those Q-47s are nice, flexible
cruisers. They don’t come
cheap.”
“Price is a comparative
matter. Could you put me in
touch with the owners?”
“I could call and check with
them,” the superintendent
said cautiously. “If the ship’s
not for sale, they may not
want to be bothered.”
“That’s true. Shall we go
to your office?”
In the superintendent’s of-
fice, Fitz stood looking out the
window listening to the clicks
of the dial spring as the su-
perintendent spun the num-
ber. He heard the man explain
and ask his question. The an-
swer came quickly. The man
turned from the phone. “Not
for sale,” he said. “But if you
will leave your name and
number so I can get in touch
with you — ”
“I’ll drop around again,”
Fitz said. “Thank you very
much.”
A check on the number led
Fitz to 7 Plaza Rivoli, up on
Gold Knob Hill, from which
16
AAAAZING STORIES
the wealthy of Baltic City
looked down upon the remain-
ing four-fifths.
A small white card under a
bell said, Mr. and Mrs. Jan
Spurdick. Fitz checked his tie
and shirt front and punched
the bell. While waiting, he
took a handful of calling cards
from his pocket and thought-
fully selected one.
A moment later, a soft bell
rang and a section of the wall
opened. Fitz stepped inside.
The wall closed and the ele-
vator shot silently roofward,
stopping just as Fitz was sure
it had gone beyond the last
ceiling and up into space.
He stepped out into a lushly
carpeted hallway as the ele-
vator door snapped playfully
at his coat-tails and went
back downstairs. He went
along the hall and found an-
other button and pressed it.
A man opened the door.
At least he was a creature
who passed for a man. Fitz
spotted the camouflage in-
stantly, and knew that most
biologists and anthropologists
would have made strenuous
argument on the point. To
Fitz’s trained eye, here was a
Ganymedian biped that had
gone to an excellent plastic
surgeon.
Fitz let his memory slip
back into a certain locked file
of the Security Arm back in
Frisco. In this file, each of the
seventy-odd varieties of intel-
ligent animal life residing in
the galaxy were exhaustively
indexed and analyzed for the
benefit of the police person-
nel.
Of all these forms, the
Ganymedian biped was over-
shadowed in cruelty, homi-
cidal instinct, and high
intelligence, only by the
Georgian feline entities which
came from the Georgian as-
teroids on the far side of the
galaxy. The Ganymedian
biped could justly be classed
as an animal with the mind
of a man. Also, with its tusks
removed and replaced by un-
obtrusive teeth, with the
bright blue skin of its neck
bleached and restrained a sun-
tan shade, it could pass as a
Terran so long as it kept its
red-pupiled eyes covered by
contact lenses.
The surgeon who’d worked
on this one, had done an ex-
cellent job. Only small, almost
invisible details remained for
the trained eye to spot. Other
eyes saw a tall, handsome,
blonde Terran with a phy-
sique any man would have
envied.
The Ganymedian wore a
tight fitting pajama set of red
Venusian wolfhide that set off
his muscles to perfection. He
THE CHAINED MAN
17
scowled and asked, “What do
you want?”
Fitz looked past him, into
the luxurious one-room apart-
ment. Quick shock sent a chill
down his spine. “Is the lady
of the house home?”
“You can see her sitting
there, can’t you?”
Switching his approach in-
stantly, Fitz ignored the call-
ing card he had previously
selected, and pawed into his
breast pocket for another one.
He smiled and said, “I repre-
sent the Universal Cosmetic
Company. We plan to estab-
lish offices here in Baltic City,
and — ”
“We don’t want any. Now
turn your fat gut around
and — ”
“Let him in, Jan.”
“What in the hell do we — ?”
“Let him in.”
The Ganymedian sullenly
pulled the door open and
stepped aside. “Come on in.
But make it fast.”
Fitz walked past him to
stand before the beautiful
creature that lay on an expen-
sive green lounge beside the
picture window that framed
a breath-taking view of Baltic
City. She wore a transparent
robe that outlined long,
smooth legs and a body to
which no sculptor could have
done justice. Fitz was aware
of the heady perfume, sharp
and musky, that hung over
her like an aura. And, com-
pletely aware of what she was,
he still felt her tremendous
sex-magnetism pulling at him
like gravity itself.
Swiftly, he visualized her
as she had been before some
evil chance had allowed her
to escape from the Georgian
asteroids. Then she’d been
completely covered with soft
gray fur. The irises of her
eyes had been long black slits.
Her teeth had been jet-black
and had no doubt been stained
more than once with the blood
of a Georgian male. The weak-
est of the species, the males
were invariably killed by the
females of those infamous as-
teroids.
But the gray fur had been
carefully shaved from every
inch of the beautiful body
and the skin tanned to a
gorgeous golden brown. The
teeth had been capped with
snowy porcelain and the slit
irises were hidden by huge,
limpid, dark eyes painted on
contact lenses;
How, Fitz wondered, had
this murderous pair ever got-
ten together? How many bru-
tal crimes had they commit-
ted ? How many lives had they
snuffed out? The Georgian fe-
male’s sex lure, an almost
tangible force, could render
18
AAAAZiNG STORIES
helpless any unsuspecting
male in the galaxy.
She was smiling lazily.
“You are something new — a
bashful salesman. Come !
Speak up. Every woman is in-
terested in cosmetics.”
Fitz had counted on that.
He was marveling at the beau-
tiful black wig she wore and
was wondering what it had
cost. He said, “I’m not a sales-
man exactly. More of a good-
will man. Publicity. I’m call-
ing on the ladies of Baltic City
so that when we open our sa-
lon in this section they’ll know
what we have to offer and pos-
sibly think kindly of us.”
Fitz felt a wave of heat
sweep over him and he knew
she was deliberately exerting
her sex-lure — probably for
amusement. Fitz braced him-
self against the hot, exciting
sensation. He said, “I won’t
take up much of your time,
now. But later. I’ll take the
liberty of extending you an in-
vitation to a cocktail party we
plan prior to our opening.”
"I’d be delighted.” She
watched Fitz’s eyes as they
went— of their own volition —
to her beautiful body; watch-
ed with amusement as he
resolutely pulled them away.
Fitz got to his feet. No need
to spend additional time here.
He had his quarry spotted —
knew from experience the
method of operation these two
used. He fumbled with his hat
and said, “I’ll be going now.
Thank you for your time.”
The scowling Ganymedian
opened the door. Fitz walked
past him, goose pimples rising
on his skin as he came near
the handsome animal. He was
glad to hear the door close be-
hind him.
Biddy was exhibiting the
impatience that comes of
youth and inexperience. He
said, “It doesn’t make sense
to me. Any of it.”
“I’ll be glad to clear it up
for you,” Fitz said wearily.
“In the first place — why all
the pussyfooting? You’re a
policeman with a policeman’s
authority. So why put on the
act with the blast pit super-
intendent. Why didn’t you
just walk in and demand the
information you wanted?”
“Because I didn’t have the
least idea whether he was an
honest man or a criminal. He
could have passed the word on
to Gold Knob Hill and I’d have
found the apartment vacated.”
Biddy considered that. “All
right, but when you finally lo-
cated them, why did you go
on with the act? You know
they’re the pair you want.
Why not grab them?”
“Knowledge and proof are
two different things. A good
THE CHAINED A\AN
19
many hundred years ago,
some primitive men in ancient
United States formulated a
document called the Constitu-
tion. This document protected
the rights of men and became
the basis of modern Terran
and Universal law. This Con-
stitution says, among other
things, that no man is re-
quired to testify against him-
self; that a man is innocent
until proven guilty.”
Biddy waved an impatient
hand. “I know all that, but a
Georgian feline — a Ganyme-
dian — ”
“Are basically animals, but
the Universal Charter doesn’t
class them as such. If it did,
we’d have gone in and anni-
hilated them centuries ago,
just as we did the Venusian
apes and the Plutonian quad-
rupeds.”
“I think the Charter found-
ers made a mistake.”
“Then I suggest you get up
a petition asking them to cor-
rect it. But in the meantime,
we have a man and a woman
to apprehend and convict le-
gally. And we have very little
in the way of proof. Almost
nothing that would stand up
in court.”
“But you know — "
“What we found out is mere
routine, not proof. A court
would call it circumstantial
evidence. We can put the
killers and the victim on the
same planet and that’s all. We
can’t prove they killed the vic-
tim, and if I’m any judge of
those two, we won’t even be
able to establish contact with
the victim. They’re far too
smart to leave any real evi-
dence behind them.”
Biddy frowned. “Then
what do we do ? Call the whole
thing off and go home?”
Fitz was regarding his as-
sistant with veiled specula-
tion. “Not necessarily. I have
an idea that might convict
them. That is, if you wouldn’t
object to acting as a decoy.”
“Of course I wouldn’t.”
“This could be dangerous —
if anything went wrong.”
“Look — I may not be as
smart as you are — but I’m no
coward.”
Fitz smiled and felt an in-
ward warmth. He knew there
had been a reason he’d taken
to Biddy; something above
and beyond the young man’s
personality. He said, “Very
well, we’ll go ahead with it.
But remember this — under
no circutnstances must that
pair learn you are a detective.
It would be fatal.”
Fitz and Biddy sat in a car
across the street from the
Royal Baltic Hotel. “I think
she makes her contacts in the
Royal Palm Room. That’s
20
AMAZING STORIES
where I’d spend most of my
time if I w'ere you.”
“I’d say that there’s one big
risk.”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe she’s already work-
ing on a potential sucker.”
“That’s possible. If so, try
and spot him.”
“Well, wish me luck.”
“You’ll need it. “By the
way — this should be our last
personal contact. Report to
me by phone when you get the
chance. Or drop me a note.”
“All right. I’ll keep in
touch. And don’t put any men
on me. These people, as you
say yourself, are smart.”
“One last word— don’t
drink too much.”
Biddy grinned. “I can hold
my liquor.”
Four days later, Biddy sat
at the bar in the Royal Palm
Room. It was a gorgeous
place, an exact replica of a
Terran tropic isle. A hidden
orchestra drenched the place
with romantic guitar music
that was beginning to hit
Biddy’s ears like thick syrup.
He had done careful pre-
liminary work, had spread
tips lavishly, and was known
as a young Terran playboy
with far more money than
brains.
He had seen the woman
twice ; once when Fitz pointed
her out to him from across the
street as she left her apart-
ment, once in the Royal Palm
Room when she had entered
and sat at a table alone. Biddy
immediately bought drinks
for the house and insisted on
serving her personally and
with a flourish.
The experience shook him.
He had never seen such a
beautiful woman and, in
Biddy’s case, that covered a
lot of ground. He felt her tre-
mendous magnetism and could
understand why unsuspecting
males fell into her trap.
But she did not return to
the Royal Palm Room again,
and he was beginning to
doubt the success of the proj-
ect. The place was beginning
to bore him and he sat, now,
deciding whether to contact
Fitz and report failure. His
thoughts were interrupted by
a sound. He turned.
Directly behind his stool lay
an expensive bag, the contents
strewn about the floor. He and
the bag’s owner stooped down
in unison. Their heads almost
collided. Biddy said, “Oh, I’m
sorry.”
She smiled. “Quite all right.
Clumsy of me.”
It was the woman.
Biddy handed her the bag.
“You must let me buy you a
drink. Small recompense for
being a lout.”
THE CHAINED MAN
21
She smiled. “How can I re-
fuse when I was to blame?”
“Shall we go to a table?”
“I’d be delighted.”
“I see one in the corner over
there. Almost hidden by their
best palms. We can get ac-
quainted.”
“Wonderful,” she purred.
Biddy followed her across
the room. Contact!
Fitz waited three days be-
fore returning to the Baltic
City blast pits. He discovered,
not at all to his surprise, that
this was the superintendent’s
day oif. Fitz now wore the
regulation uniform of an in-
spector from the Space Craft
Inspection and Licensing Bu-
reau. He carried a regulation
bag containing a set of regu-
lation tools. He carried proper
identification. He said, “Three
expirations. Can you point
these ships out to me?”
The assistant was respect-
ful. He obliged. And, not by
chance, one of the ships was
the Baltic Queen.
Fitz spent quite a little time
in the Queen. He found it to
be a regulation four-man job
with extra power and accom-
modations. It was in excellent
condition. Even a genuine in-
spector could have found no
fault with it.
When he had finished with
the Queen, Fitz went swiftly
22
over the other two ships and
quietly left the blast pits.
Biddy lay back on a lounge
in a luxurious penthouse
apartment on Gold Knob Hill
and reached for a cigarette.
When he put it between his
lips, a light was waiting. He
blew out a cloud of smoke and
said, “Thank you, Nigel.”
The ravishing, black-haired
woman, reclining on a second
lounge, said, “You may leave,
Nigel. We’ll have no further
need of you.”
The blond man bowed
with deference. “Thank you.
Madam. Do you wish me to
return later?”
“I’ll call if we want you.”
“Very good. Madam.” Nigel
bowed again, then turned and
bowed, with the same defer-
ence, to Biddy.
Nigel left and Biddy said,
“Sylvia, darling — I’m almost
jealous of that man.”
Her soft laugh was like the
sound of a silver bell. “Nigel?
Don’t be childish, angel. I’ve
never been guilty of encourag-
ing servants.”
“All the same, I think we’ll
get rid of him after we’re
married.”
She registered mild sur-
prise. “Get rid of Nigel? Why
he’s a rare jewel, angel. And
he admires you more than a
great deal.”
AMAZING STORIES
“But we’ll have no need of
him.”
“Not need a servant?”
“I’m going to be your
servant. I can do everything
for you that Nigel can — and
more.”
She laughed again. “We’ll
see — after the honeymoon.
We have to have a pilot.”
“I’m a pilot.”
Her eyes glowed. “But
angel, you’ll be far too busy
to bother about piloting a
ship.”
Biddy lay back dreamily. “I
guess you’re right.”
“Why don’t you come over
here and kiss me?”
“A wonderful idea.”
Fitz paced the room rest-
lessly. Two weeks had passed.
On the desk, lay two short
notes from Biddy. These, to-
gether with a hurried phone
call reporting the contact, had
been the only communica-
tions. The last note was four
days old.
Fitz continued to pace, a
frown twisting his ugly face
into a look of added ugliness.
His misgivings had been
mounting steadily. He had
realized the dangers of this
project from the first, but he’d
had a long time to ponder
them in solitude and they
broadened in his mind. He
wondered if he had had the
right to expose Biddy to such
perils.
He tried to reassure himself
by remembering that Biddy
was a detective; that he had
entered the profession with
his eyes open. He was of age
and had been adjudged as
competent. Therefore, he had
to assume the risks involved.
Also, Fitz told himself, the
project had been necessary.
Direct evidence — a first-hand
witness — was vital if those
two were to be convicted. Fitz
cursed the law that made evi-
dence procured from truth-
serum inadmissable without
corroboration. It was a silly
law and some day it would be
changed. At present, the only
way to convict the pair was
the way Fitz had devised ; the
project that put Biddy’s head
on the block, Fitz had taken
all possible precautions, of
course, but he knew from ex-
perience that precautions
could go wrong. Those two had
brains. What if they discov-
ered how he had tampered
with their ship?
Fitz paced on, going over
each detail again, telling him-
self the manipulation was
fool-proof. He finished that
line of thought by hoping that
it was, and went on looking
for other holes in the plan.
He was sure he had foreseen
every possible hole in the
THE CHAINED MAN
23
plan — caulked each hole up
tight. But had he missed one?
He certainly had. It was
revealed to him when the
door opened and a messenger
entered to hand him an enve-
lope. “Just came, sir," the
messenger said.
Fitz glanced at the hand-
writing. Biddy’s. “At last!"
he muttered. He tore open the
envelope and began reading.
Halfway through the first
paragraph, he groped behind
him for a chair and sat down.
Dear Fitz:
This is a rather difficult
letter to write. A man in my
position would naturally find
it hard to accuse his supe-
rior of stupidy, gross mis-
conduct, neglect of duty. But
I have no alternative. In fact
I must go even further and
accuse you of persecution,
of hounding a fine, w’onder-
ful woman and — I must face
up to it squarely — of ac-
tually attempting to frame
her. I can attribute this only
to your laziness. Your con-
duct can only be traced to
your reluctance to extend
the effort necessary to solve
the crime in question.
Either that, or you are a
victim of misjudgment so
monstrous as to be criminal
on your own part.
Regardless, allow me to
enlighten you as to the true
state of affairs. Sylvia
Spurdick is a widow. Her
24
husband was killed, tragic-
ally, three days after her
wedding two years ago, in a
faulty blast-off from the
Venusian pits. She loved him
dearly and her grief drove
her almost out of her mind.
The man you told me
about, is a fine, loyal serv-
ant who has but one aim in
life — to serve Sylvia as long
as he is needed.
Where you dreamed up all
that libelous fiction concern-
ing Sylvia and Nigel will be
forever beyond me. Words
fail me when trying to give
you my opinion of such
monstrous lies. So I will
merely state that Nigel is
not a converted Ganymedian
or anything else. He is a
Terran with a background
as fine as yours. Sylvia is
not a Georgian. As a mat-
ter of fact, she was born in
New York City and I’m sure
you could locate her records
there if you cared to take
the trouble.
There is little more to say
except that Sylvia has done
me the honor of accepting
my hand in marriage. This
honor is something to be
marveled at when you real-
ize she has not looked at
another man since the tragic
death of her husband. I can
only hope I will be able to
live up to the standard he
set. In attempting to do so,
I will use every weapon at
my command. Toward this
end, I have had two million
AMAZING STORIES
units transfered to the Bal-
tic City National Bank and
have withdrawn it in cash.
We are leaving on a long
honeymoon, after which we
will settle down and be
happy.
Please consider this as my
resignation from the FSSA.
I do not want to be asso-
ciated with an outfit that
goes around persecuting
helpless women.
Sincerely,
Bidford Payne.
The letter dropped from the
detective’s nerveless fingers.
The possibility which ’ had
completely escaped him ! That
Biddy, even when having
been told the truth, would still
be vulnerable to the Georgian
feline’s powers of attraction.
Fitz snatched up the letter
and looked at the date. It was
seven days old. He snatched
up the phone. “Get me the
blast pit!” he roared.
A moment later, the super-
intendent was saying, “The
Baltic Queen? It’s not here.
It blasted off more than a
week ago. It — hey! You still
there?” The superintendent
shrugged and hung up. “Crazy
man.”
The letter from Biddy was
a tight wad of paper that
Fitz kept rolling in his fin-
gers as he rode to the space
port. His eyes were bleak and
his mind was filled with grim
thoughts. He’d been a negli-
gent fool not to keep a check
on the Baltic Queen. It would
have been so simple. How
would he be able to explain to
headquarters that he had over-
looked the simple precaution
of putting a stop-flight on the
ship? A blunder that would
probably cost Biddy his life.
Six days. Perhaps the boy was
already dead.
“If they killed him,” Fitz
muttered, “I’ll turn in my
resignation. Then I’ll hunt
them all over the galaxy.
When I find them, I won’t
worry about any technicali-
ties of evidence.”
The Baltic Queen rocketed
through space. Standing at
the port, Biddy looked cut
into the empty vastness -and
asked, “By the way, darling,
I asked you several times, but
you never told me— what
course did you have Nigel
set?”
Sylvia’s laugh was the purr
of a cat. “A man in love, my
dear, shouldn’t worry about
such things. You should be
thinking only of me. What do
you care where we go so long
as we are on our way to-
gether?”
“Just curious.”
“Nigel is a fine pilot. I gave
him instructions to see that
we were completely alone —
THE CHAINED MAN
25
you and I. That's all that is
important.”
She moved close, for a kiss,
then went to the liquor cab-
inet and returned with two
glasses. “Here, my darling.
This will raise your spirits.”
They touched glasses and
drank. She led Biddy to a
chair and sat down in his lap.
She kissed him, stroked his
hair. “Do you feel better
now?”
He blinked. “I feel —
drowsy.”
She purred. “You were
nice. The nicest, I think, of
them all.”
His eyes widened for a mo-
ment. Then the lids grew
heavier. “I — I can’t move my
arms.”
“Of course not. The drug
works ver,y swiftly. You will
lose consciousness in twenty
seconds, my darling. Just time
for one more kiss.” She
laughed and placed her lips
against his and held them
there until his head dropped.
A few minutes later the
cabin door opened. Nigel en-
tered. “Is he out?”
“Completely. He’s quite safe
to handle now.” She noted
with amusement, the quick
flush that rose into Nigel’s
face. She laughed and goaded
him further. “You weren’t in-
terested in handling this one
in your usual manner. Why?
Has brutality lost its thrill for
you?”
Nigel snarled, pushed the
unconscious Biddy to the floor
and kicked him viciously. Syl-
via continued to be amused.
“He was more dangerous than
the others, wasn’t he darling?
Not a fat, helpless little man
unable to fight back.”
Nigel kicked Biddy in the
face, then turned to the port.
“I was beginning to think
we’d never find a planet or an
asteroid.”
“You’re putting down on
this one?”
“Of course. I want to get
rid of him.”
“Is it uninhabited?”
“Look for yourself. I’ve
circled it five times. There’s
no sign of a living thing.”
She stretched lazily. “Good.
I was beginning to get a trifle
bored with him. So young. So
naive.” She turned a smile on
Nigel. “I’m afraid you and I
were made for each other, dar-
ling. Get rid of him quickly.”
Nigel reached for her. She
slipped away from him.
“Later,” she said. “He might
come to and spoil your nice
profile. Get him into his
chains.”
Biddy opened his aching
eyes and looked out across the
barren, rocky surface of the
planet. He moved his thick
26
AMAZING STORIES
parched lips to curse. What a
fool he’d been! How could a
sane man have been so stu-
pid? He tested the chains on
his wrists and ankles. No
chance of breaking them.
Well, he wouldn’t be a sane
man long. He’d be a skeleton
and maybe they’d find him
some day — pick up his bones
in a basket and take them to
Frisco where the smart boys
could make exhaustive tests
and tell the working detective
in charge of the case: We’ve
got news for you. This guy is
dead.
Biddy laughed, but only
briefly. The effort made his
head hurt too much. He
squinted up into the sky,
where a blue-white sun shot
down its pitiless rays. He
wished to hell he had a good
stiff drink.
He closed his eyes and won-
dered how bad it would be.
After a while, he’d heard, a
man lost his thirst, lost his
pain, lost everything, lay in a
coma. That would be fine, but
what went on before the
coma? Pretty uncomfortable
no doubt. Uncomfortable both
physically and mentally. It
would be rough, and thinking
about Fitz wasn’t going to
help a bit. He’ll certainly have
me pegged for an idiot, Biddy
thought. They’ll find my
bones and if they throw him
the case. I’ll bet he’ll refuse
to take it.
Biddy closed his eyes. He
slept.
“Biddy! Biddy! For God’s
sake! Are you still alive?
Open your eyes, boy!”
Biddy opened his eyes. He
was dreaming. That, or he’d
passed from the realm of
reason into the land of fan-
tasy, because Fitz was on his
knees, breathing in his face,
pouring cool water into his
mouth. Biddy moved his
tongue. The water seemed
real enough. You’d swear it
was the genuine article. Great
place, this world of fantasy.
Biddy croaked, “Hello, pal.
Did they get you too?”
Fitz sat back and wiped the
sweat from his face. “I
thought you were a goner,
boy. You’ve been here almost
a week. That would kill an
ordinary man.”
“We freaks ai’e immune to
almost everything. How
about a good drink of that
water.”
Fitz held the canteen. “Take
it easy. Not too much. Then
lie still and rest ’til the
monks get here. They’re on
the way with tools to cut you
loose. I spotted you and ran
on ahead.”
“The monks. What monks?"
“Why, this is the planet I
THE CHAINED /AAN
27
told you about — or thought I
did. It was colonized in 2085
by an order of penitents
who — ”
“Wait a minute. Are you
telling me — ” Biddy’s head
dropped. He had passed out.
Biddy opened his eyes.
There was a spinning gray
blur all around him. Then it
slowed down and took on var-
ious solid forms. He lay on a
hard cot, obviously in a cave
of some sort. Around him
stood several figures, cowled
and robed in black. One of
them said, “Rejoice, my
brothers. God has seen fit to
spare our friend. I am sure
he will mend quickly, now.
Let us go to the chapel and
thank Him for His mercy.”
They filed out and Biddy
saw Fitz standing by the cot.
Biddy shook his head to clear
the fog and said, “Are you
telling me that of all the mil-
lions of planets in the galaxy,
that pair just happened to
land on the only one inhabited
by an order of monks?”
Fitz grinned. The grin
lighted his ugly face ; made it
almost handsome. “You’ve
got a one-track mind.”
“I asked you.”
“Of course not. I arranged
that. It was a part of my orig-
inal plan. I got on the Baltic
Queen with an inspector’s
badge and planted a robot pi-
lot under the cowling. Then
I set a course for them and
connected their controls to a
gyro so their dials would reg-
ister accurately off the dis-
connected controls.”
“I’ve never heard of such a
thing.”
“Very few people have. It’s
a device used only by FSSA.
Very hush-hush.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“I’d figured on coming on
ahead after I got the word
from you, and having the
monks spotted all over this
planet to watch for you. I had
it all figured out to work as
smooth as grease, but when
you fell for that cat’s
charms — ”
“FeU for her!”
“I got your letter — ”
“I didn’t fall for her. They
found out I was a cop and I
saw our whole plan shot to
pieces, so I put on the act. It
was all I could do to try and
save the play.”
“Why, good God, boy! You
must have been crazy. How
did you think you could pull it
off alone?”
“I — I didn’t know exactly,
but I had to try. I figured on
staying alert and looking for
breaks. I thought that maybe
when that Ganymedian freak
jumped me and tried to kick
my teeth in I’d arrest them
28
AMAZING STORIES
both. But he didn’t even try.
The cat drugged me.”
‘T could have told you he
wouldn’t risk a swing at you.
Those Ganymedian counter-
feits are yellow right down to
the bone. He was afraid of
you, boy.”
Biddy smiled without hu-
mor. “Well, regardless, we’ve
failed. They’ll go so far away
now, that we couldn’t locate
them if we had eleven lives
apiece.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why will they go away?”
“Because — say, that’s right.
They don’t know you found
me. They’ll go back to Baltic
City and look for another
sucker!”
“Wrong again,” Fitz said.
“They won’t go back to Bal-
tic City, either.”
“Listen, will you tell me
what in hell — ”
“I’ll tell you nothing until
you get some sleep.”
And Fitz walked out of the
cave.
A week later, Fitz entered
Biddy’s cave. “Ready to
travel?”
“I was ready an hour after
I got here.”
“Good. We’re blasting off.”
They said good-bye to the
monks and entered space in
Fitz’s two-man ship. Biddy
said. “We heading for Baltic
City?”
“No— Frisco.”
“That’s right. You said
they wouldn’t go back to Bal-
tic. Are they in Frisco?”
“No.”
“Then where are they?”
“It would be a little hard to
say.”
“Are we going on with the
case?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Is it being filed under
unsolved?”
“No.”
“Closed?”
“No.”
“Then what in hell is the
status of the thing?”
“It’s hanging fire.”
“And how long will it
hang?”
“That’s hard to say.”
“Well I’ll be—”
“There’s a smuggling case.
It’s been assigned to us. Do
you feel up to it? I can get
you a leave.”
“The hell with that. I’m up
to it. But about those two — ”
“How about pouring a
drink for us. Then I’m going
to take a nap.”
“All right! Then don’t
talk!”
Fitz emptied his glass and
took a nap.
Two months later, when
Biddy entered the office, Fitz
THE CHAINED MAN
29
said, “How would you like to
take a run out into the gal-
axy?”
“A new case?”
“No, an old one. We blast
in an hour.”
The ship traveled two days
on an automatic pilot. To-
ward the end of the second
day, Fitz was seated in the
main cabin studying his
chronometer. Biddy looked up
from his book and said, “Why
do you keep looking at that
watch? You expecting some-
one?”
Fitz snapped the second
hand. “As a matter of fact, I
am.” He got up and went to
the port. “Want to see who
it is?”
Biddy walked over and
looked out. His eyes widened.
“Good Lord! The Baltic
Queen!”
“Right.”
“But where- -how?”
“I told you how I aimed
them at the monk’s planet
with a hidden robot pilot. I
didn’t stop there. After they
left the planet, the Baltic
Queen kept right on traveling
in a big orbit — precharted —
to nowhere.”
“They’ve been traveling,
helplessly, for two months?”
“Exactly. They no doubt
realize they’re on a robot pi-
lot but they can’t get at it
from inside the ship — not
without a blow torch, and
they haven’t got a single
one.”
“But why did you leave
them out here for two
months?”
“You’ll see. Claw onto the
ship and fasten the air lock
hatches together. We’ll cut
through.”
Half an hour later, the ship
was broached. Fitz said, “I’ll
,go first.”
“All right, but watch out
for Nigel. He’s tricky.”
“I don’t think we’ll have to
worry about him,” Fitz said.
“Why not?”
“Look for yourself.”
Fitz pointed to the floor of
the companionway. It was
strewn with scraps of flesh
and gnawed bones.
“Good God ! Is that—?”
“Right. All that’s left of
Nigel.”
“Where’s Sylvia?”
“We’ll see — stay behind
me.”
They moved down the com-
panionway until they came to
the door of the main cabin.
Fitz said, “Careful, now,” and
pushed it slowly open.
A high-pitched snarl tore at
their ears, and Fitz slammed
the door just as a thunderbolt
hit it from the inside. Biddy
leaped back with sudden sick-
ness in his eyes. “What in the
name of — ”
30
AMAZING STORIES
Fitz took a small heat gun
from his pocket. “I’m going
to open it again.” He threw
the door open and snapped a
searing blast in front of the
monstrosity that was again set
to leap at them. “Back, cat —
back!”
Biddy stood frozen as he
stared. “It — it can’t be!”
“She reverted,” Fitz said.
They stood staring at the
red-mawed cat that crouched,
snarling against the far wall.
Sylvia’s clothing was gone.
She now wore a coat of soft,
gray fur. Her nails had grown
into claws and her fur was
blood stained and dirt-
caked.
“But how could a thing like
this happen?” Biddy asked.
“I thought maybe it would.
They were bound to find out
they were trapped. That pan-
icked both of them and Sylvia,
at least, returned to the prim-
itive.”
Biddy’s face was filled with
a mixture of pity and revul-
sion. “Why did you do it?”
“For two reasons.”
“You didn’t believe me?
You thought I actually was in
love with — ?”
“No. I was afraid we could-
n’t convict them. A conviction
is pretty hard in a case like
this, and I couldn’t have those
two going back to their old
tricks.”
THE CHAINED AAAN
“Your other reason?”
“I wanted a graphic case to
lay before the Federated Con-
gress. Those Georgian felines
should be outlawed. It was a
mistake to upgrade them to
human level. Maybe some
before - and - after pictures
will — ”
“But such a heartless, hor-
rible—”
“Remember the men these
two killed,” Fitz said, grimly.
“Remember that skeleton
chained to the rock. And God
knows how many more of
them are floating around the
galaxy.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Why don’t you get the
money you gave her as bait.
She’ll have no further use for
it.”
“Then what are we going
to do?”
“Tow this charnel house
back to civilization — after I
feed this cat.”
“Feed her?”
“I brought a side of beef
along. You’ll find it in the''
freezer.”
Sylvia’s slit eyes glowed. A
raspy purr issued from the
furry throat. She stretched
her sleek body in a manner
highly remindful of a sensu-
ous woman.
“See?” Fitz said. “She’s
hungry.”
THE END
31
King of the
BLACK SUNRISE
By MILTON LESSER
No man is icilling to lunlk deliberately into the jau’s
of death— not when he knows there’s not a chance
in ten millions of coming out alive. Yet Kent Tag-
gert agreed to risk destruction, for the time of the
Black Sunrise was at hand— and the fabulous treas-
ure of an entire planet could he had for the taking!
I WAS telling Gurr the Ar-
givian what it’s like in
Terra City when the sun goes
down across the bay, burnish-
ing the spires and towers like
molten copper, when the
Earthmen came in. I had
known they were here on Ar-
giv. I’d seen their spaceship
come shuddering out of sub-
space. But I turned my back
on them and ordered another
drink and told Gurr with my
eyes to go away, when I felt
a hand di’op firmly on my
shoulder.
"You’re Kent Taggert,” the
girl said.
“Not me, lady.” But damn
her, she was studying my pro-
file and nodding.
“You don’t have to lie. I’ve
seen pictures of you. I’d know
you anywhere.”
“Don’t you watch the news-
vids, lady? Kent Taggert is
dead.”
“That’s where I saw your
picture. On the newsvids.”
“Maybe I look like him a
little.”
“You can just stop it, Kent
Taggert. An outworlder on
Cephlus told us you were
alive, told us you were here in
Argiv City. We need you,
Taggert.”
“Nobody needs me,” I said.
I looked at her for the first
time. She was beautiful. So
damned beautiful and so
damned sure of herself I felt
like poking her one.
“Then you admit it? You’re
Taggert?”
“I admit nothing.”
“If we hire you without
asking your name, will you
join us?”
“No.”
“We’ll pay you well — Tag-
gert.”
“Definitely, no.”
“Listen, you fool.” The
voice suddenly became hard.
Not cruel, but hard. It was
barely above a whisper. I
could smell her perfume, not
the kind that slams two sexy
fists into your nostrils but the
subtle kind, like the girls can
buy only on Earth. “Let me
tell you something. There was
a man from the W.B.I. on our
ship. He’s here on Argiv. He
was also on Cephlus. He’s
looking for you.”
The W.B.I. The World Bu-
reau of Investigation. It could
be. The Council of the Worlds
had passed a blanket extradi-
tion law for me. That’s why
I’m here on Argiv. No Earth-
man bothers coming to Argiv.
Almost no Earthman.
I was all set to tell her she
could go and shove it. But
just then the door to Gurr’s
Tavern — it’s the only tavern
at the only spaceport on Ar-
giv — opened. Blinding light
from the three Argivian suns
stabbed into the room. When
I could see again, another
Earthman had joined the
girl’s two silent companions.
He was trying too hard not to
look like law. He was law, all
right.
“I haven’t much time, Tag-
gert,” the girl whispered
quickly. “W’e’re going up-
country. The outworlder on
Cephlus said you’ve been
spending your time between
Cephlus and Argiv. You know
this planet. Better than any
other Earthman. Better than
34
AMAZING STORIES
mo&t Argivians. We’ll hire
you as a guide and you can
stop worrying about the
W.B.I. — for a while.”
“What the hell do you want
up-country?"
“The same as anybody else
wants.”
“They never find it.”
“They never look for it
right before the Black Sun-
rise, do they?”
“You know about that?” I
asked. I tried not to show it,
but there was sudden respect
in my voice.
“We’re no amateurs, Tag-
gert. What do you say?”
I shrugged, thinking. If an
Earthman or any other out-
worlder left Argiv City dur-
ing Black Sunrise, it was as
good as committing suicide.
It was better. A suicide might
change his mind, but an alien
on Argiv during Black Sun-
rise couldn’t. I let my gaze
wander across the room to
where the W.B.I. man was
sitting with the girl’s two
companions. His eyes were
waiting for mine, locked with
them. He smiled. Not a nice
smile.
“When can you start?’ I
asked the girl.
“Whenever you say.”
“All right. I want five hun-
dred credits.”
“Out of which you’ll pay
KING OF THE BLACK SUNRISE
for our supplies and bearers.”
“For myself.”
“No, Taggert.”
“Then four hundred for
myself.”
“We’ll give you one hun-
dred.”
“You can shove it — ” I be-
gan.
“And ten percent of what
we find up-country.”
“. . . O.K. I’ll get supplies
and bearers. You see that
W.B.I. man? You<:an hit him
over the head or make love to
him or anything you want,
but keep him away from me
till we’re ready to start.”
“I’ll take care of him. When
do we start?”
I grinned at her. She didn’t
like the grin and looked away.
“Don’t bother to unpack,” I
said."
Gurr, who had used the
galaxy-wide barman’s peroga-
tive to eavesdrop, was scowl-
ing. His usually flabby purple
skin was stretched taut over
his cheekbones, baring the
yellow fangs in his mouth.
“Why don’t you pick an easy
way to die, Taggert?” he said.
II
“This is Dr. Kidder,” the
girl told me two hours later,
when we were on the trail.
I nodded mechanically at Dr.
Kidder and shook his hand,
35
but I was looking over his
shoulder through the brilliant
mauve light of Argiv’s per-
petual day — make that almost
perpetual — at the tiny distant
cubes of Argiv City’s sun-
dried brick buildings and
thinking that it was the only
outpost of civilization on Ar-
giv, which meant the only one
in a couple of square parsecs
of space.
“A pleasure, Mr. Taggert,”
Dr. Kidder said.
“And this is Larry Gotten,
Taggert,” the girl told me.
Gotten had a firm hand-
shake and bold, angry eyes.
He was a good-looking guy,
tall and straight with a
mouthful of flashing white
teeth. I looked at the girl and
looked at Gotten, still smiling
at me with his mouth only,
and I figured maybe there
was something between them.
Well, what the hell did I care?
But for some reason I hated
Gotten and looking at his face
knew that he hated me, too.
“I never did get your
name,” I told the girl.
“I’m Helen Purcell. We’re
quite a crew, aren’t we, Tag-
gert? A professor of archae-
ology, an ex-video actress — ”
“You used to act?” I asked.
She was pretty enough, with
long golden hair and blue eyes
which looked purple under the
three suns of Argiv, and a fig-
ure in the whipcord britches
and boots and tight whipcord
blouse which kept trying to
pull your eyes from their
sockets.
“I tried,” Helen said. “And
then there’s Larry, who’s
a — ”
“Why don’t you come off
it?” Gotten demanded. “It’s
no business of Taggert’s what
we used to do. We’re not ask-
ing him, are we?”
“No,” I admitted. But if
they knew my name, they
knew all about me. I was kind
of a celebrity all over the
galaxy. The only convicted
murderer to escape from
Earth in something like fifty
years. “What got you inter-
ested in the Treasure of the
Black Sunrise?” I asked.
Helen shrugged. “Do you
think we’ll find it?”
“No, but it’s your money
your’re spending. I think you’ll
be lucky to get back alive.”
“The local chamber of com-
merce ought to tar and
feather this guy,” Gotten said
brightly.
Our bearers, big flabby
purple-skinned Argivians like
Gurr, were just struggling up
the rise of ground to our left,
joining us with the expedi-
tion’s equipment. I jabbered
at the chief bearer, a tall old
purple fellow with a shock of
bright yellow hair like straw.
36
AMAZING STORIES
name of Bonoi. My Argivian’s
a little rusty because Gurr
and some of the other Ar-
givians at the spaceport speak
English, but pretty soon Bo-
noi got the idea, flat-footed it
back to one of the young bear-
ers and soon returned to us
with four blasters,
I buckled mine on and pass-
ed them around. “Aren’t you
being a little melodramatic?”
Gotten asked me.
“Suit yourself,” I said. “I
know I want to be wearing
one w'hen Black Sunrise
comes. And maybe before.”
Just a look, no words, passed
between _Helen and Cotton.
He ran the blaster belt around
his waist but gave her a
cynical smile. Dr. Kidder ask-
ed me, “Do all three Argivian
suns really go down at once
during Black Sunrise?”
I nodded. “It’s sunset, real-
ly, not sunrise. But that’s
what they call it. The Argiv-
ians are a primitive people,
doctor. You’re an archaeolo-
gist, so maybe you know.”
"You’re confusing it with
anthropology.”
“Well, anyway. It happens
once every three years. It’s
the only time the Argivians
have darkness. They get
scared. More scared than
you’ll ever see any primitive
people get. They have three
KING OF THE BLACK SUNRISE
gods in their religion, Dr.
Kidder.” I pointed up through
the spear-tipped foliage at
two of Argiv’s three suns
overhead, then pointed north-
west to the third one on the
horizon. “Three sun gods.
When Black Sunrise comes,
they pray and make sacrifices
and give offerings for the re-
turn of their gods.”
“Why is it so dangerous?”
Dr. Kidder wanted to know.
“Because we’re Earthmen.
Because we have spaceships.
We travel in the sky with our
ships, you see; Their witch
doctors tell them that once
every three years the Earth-
men, riding their flashing
Earth ships, kidnap the three
suns. When you get right down
to it, that’s a pretty logical
explanation.”
“The hell with all this
hocus-pocus,” Larry Gotten
said. “What about the Treas-
ure of the Black Sunrise?”
“What about it?” I shrug-
ged. “You probably know
more about it than I do.”
We w'ere on the move now,
plodding forward slowly
through the dense under-
growth. When I looked back,
I could no longer see the
buildings of Argiv City,
“All we know,” Helen told
me, “is this : it’s worth a for-
tune.”
“It’s out there in the jungle
37
somewhere,” I said. “The
bearers probably know where.
Gurr — he’s the barman back
at Argiv City — knows where.
Once he told me. It’s in a
cave. They say a delicate
photo - sensitive mechanism
guards it. The entrance is at-
tuned to light-pressure. Ex-
cept for one night every three
years, it’s never dark on Ar-
giv. That one night, the cave
opens. Naturally, the Argiv-
ians bring rich offerings to
the Shrine of the Three Gods.
They also perform their weird
rites on that one night, but
they have to get out by sun-
rise. Because once light
strikes the door, it will close
automatically, and there’s no
opening it for three more
years.”
“Any idea how long they’ve
been piling up treasure in this
shrine of theirs?” Gotten ask-
ed eagerly.
“Thousands of years, ac-
cording to Gurr.”
“Thousands of years!” Cot-
ten’s eyes grew very bright,
but he was seeing nothing of
the jungle or the trail we
were on. I’d seen other Earth-
men on Argiv like that be-
fore. Some of them never got
up enough courage to head
into the up-country, as we
were doing. But others had
come this way before us. And
had disappeared. . . .
“King Solomon’s Mines, a
hundred parsecs out in deep
space,” Gotten mused, still
dreamy-eyed.
Just then Bonoi tapped my
shoulder and pointed at the
horizon. The green sun, Ar-
giv’s smallest, was setting.
“This sleep period,” said Bo-
noi in his harsh, sibilant lan-
guage, “the Green God van-
ishes. Next sleep period, the
Yellow God follows. And two
sleep periods hence, the Pur-
ple God, greatest of all. After
that, it is the time of the
Black Sunrise.”
“So what?” I said. “You
knew that before we started.
That’s why I picked you, Bo-
noi.” I hoped my Argivian
was getting across to him.
“Gurr told me you’re a civil-
ized man.”
Bonoi smiled, rubbing the
edge of his fist against his
long, thin purple nose. “For
three years I am civilized,
Earthman,” he said. “But one
night every three years, no
Argivian can forget his past.
Is it not so even in the city?”
I nodded, I had been in Ar-
giv City before at the time of
the Black Sunrise. It wasn’t
safe on the streets for an
Earthman or any out-worlder.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“Are your men complaining?
They knew where we were
38
AAAA2ING STORIES
going. They haven’t been on
the trail half an hour.”
“They are as children,”
Bonoi told me. “For me, it
does not matter. I merely
would have you know the dan-
ger. I will accompany you.
But these others . . . the
thought of your money was
too much for them, back in
the city. Now they do not
know.”
“They want to leave us?”
“Yes, Earthman. I am sor-
ry. It has come to them with
seeing the first god vanish,
the Green God.”
“What’s he talking about?”
Gotten demanded irritably.
I shook my head and said,
“Let me handle it.”
“I just want to know what
he’s jabbering about, that’s
all.”
“I can straighten it out, I
think.”
“Look here, Taggert. We’re
paying you. You aren’t run-
ning things, we are.”
I smiled coldly at him and
turned to Helen. “Is that the
way you feel, too? And Dr.
Kidder?"
“No, Taggert,” she said.
“You probably know what’s
best,” Dr. Kidder told me.
“But you might let us know
what Bonoi wants.”
“His men are afraid be-
cause the green sun is setting.
They want to go back.”
KING OF THE BLACK SUNRISE
“Already?” said Gotten,
throwing back his head and
laughing. “They’re nothing
but a lot of superstitious
savages.”
“It’s their religion.”
“I’m not interested in their
religion. I’m interested in
their treasure. You can forget
all about being polite and tell
Bonoi his men signed up to
come with us.” Gotten finger-
ed the blaster at his belt. “We
can’t go ahead without them,
and they know it. Well,
they’re coming with us — or
else.”
“I can’t tell them that,” I
said. “It’s the wrong way to
handle them.”
“Let’s have none of that
crap, Taggert. We know all
about you. There’s a W.B.I.
man waiting back in Argiv
Gity for you.”
I wanted to hit him. I want-
ed to see blood spill from that
hard handsome mouth. Maybe
I would have hit him too, but
Helen moved between us.
“Gut it out, Larry,” she said
levelly. “As far as we’re con-
cerned, Taggert’s a free man,
not a fugitive.”
I began to smile, but stop-
ped.
“Still, Taggert,” Helen went
on, “you ought to take Larry’s
suggestion.”
Shrugging, I told Bonoi, "If
you’re still on our side, do
39
3'^our men have a spokesman
among them?”
“Yes, Earthman.” And Bo-
noi trotted off to the long
sweating line of bearers. Mo-
ments later, he returned with
a young Argivian, a well-
muscled purple giant who had
not yet been plagued with the
flab to which middle-aged Ar-
givians are so prone.
“This is Karpa-ton,” Bonoi
told me. “He would speak
with you.”
Karpa-ton had a deep, rich
voice — and a one-track mind.
“Either you must go back,”
he said, “or we must go back.
Alone, we could go on without
you to the Shrine of the Three
Gods. Or we will return to the
city and let you go on alone.
It is not possible for us to
continue together.”
“You didn’t say any of that
when I hired you a couple of
hours ago,” I pointed out
heatedly.
But Bonoi said, “My people
are children, Earthman. They
have no time sense unless,
like your servant Bonoi, they
have lived among the Earth-
men in Argiv City. They did
not know the Time of the
Black Sunrise was approach-
ing until now, when they can
see with their own eyes that
the Green God vanishes. You
cannot blame them.”
“Nevertheless, we’re going
ahead. All of us.”
Karpa-ton shook his purple
head, the hairless pate catch-
ing the last deep green rays
of the setting sun. You could
see a thin film of sweat on his
pate and the stubbly bristles
of his yellow hair which, be-
ing a young Argivian, he
would shave every day. “We
go no further with you,
Earthman.”
I told this to Gotten, who
scowled and said, “Tell him
it’s an order. Tell him they
come with us.”
“The Earthman commands
you,” I said to Karpa-ton.
“No out-worlder commands
an Argivian. Least of all at
the Time of the Black Sun-
rise.”
“It is his command,” I said
again.
“Then,” said Karpa-ton ar-
rogantly, “he must be pre-
pared to back his w'ords with
actions.” And he marched off
toward the other bearers.
“Wait a minute!” Gotten
cried. “Tell him to come right
back here, Taggert.”
“Hey, Karpa-ton!” I called.
When he returned, his face
looked very grim. “The Earth-
man who hired me to hire you
insists — ”
“Enough! You think we
are animals or slaves that we
may be so commanded?”
40
AMAZING STORIES
“What’s he saying?” Gotten
demanded.
“That they’re not slaves.”
“Yeah? I’ve got news for
them. If we don’t show them
who’s boss now, we never
will. What’s his name, Karpa-
ton?” And, after I had nod-
ded: “Karpa-ton, get down
on your knees.”
Karpa-ton stood there, wait-
ing.
“He doesn’t understand,” I
said.
“Then tell him.”
All the other Argivians
stood about in a circle now,
watching us. I looked at Hel-
en, who turned away. She
didn’t think Gotten had the
right idea, but along with Dr.
Kidder, she was Gotten’s part-
ner. Me, I was just the hired
help. I was getting as angry
as Karpa-ton. I said. “The
Earthman wants you to bend
your knee before him, Karpa-
ton.”
Karpa-ton’s laughter bub-
bled in his throat and then
roared out between his thin
lips. Gotten’s face flushed an
angry red, but he stood there
and took the laughter until
Helen giggled. Then Gotten
reached for his blaster and
with one blurring motion
slashed the barrel across Kar-
pa-ton’s face. The purple man
stood there until the blood
welled suddenly from the gash
across his cheekbone. Then
with one big fist he knocked
the blaster from Gotten’s
hand and with the other,
great fingers extended and
curling, began to squeeze Got-
ten’s throat.
I sighed wearily. It was go-
ing bad, here at the begin-
ning. Karpa-ton was right,
but Gotten was an Earthman
and although I’d been run-
ning from Earthmen the last
half dozen years. I’m one too.
I put my hand on Karpa-ton’s
shoulder and spun him around
and said, “That’s enough.”
Gotten reeled back. He
would have fallen, had not
Helen and Dr. Kidder sup-
ported him. I was going to
tell him to leave dealing with
the Argivians in my hands
from now on, when I caught
a blur of motion out of the
corner of my eye.
I barely had time to duck,
taking Karpa-ton’s huge fist
high on my forehead. He was
berserk now, with blood lust
and religious fervor. Gotten,
Helen, Dr. Kidder, me — we
were all the same now. Earth-
men and despised. I caught
Karpa-ton’s wild left on the
palm of my hand, and jabbed
two extended fingers of my
free hand for his eyes. It was
not enough to gouge them
out, but enough to blind him.
KING OF THE BLACK SUNRISE
41
Karpa-ton staggered after
me, unseeing, a big, helpless,
lumbering giant. Regretting
it, I measured him carefully
and felled him with a right
cross. It was quick and clean
and deposited Karpa-ton, un-
conscious, at my feet.
“You’re strong, Taggert,”
Helen said.
I looked at her in disgust.
I walked away and didn’t talk
to anyone for a long time.
Two bearers came and picked
up Karpa-ton, and then all of
them marched back down the
trail toward Argiv City. Bo-
noi came over to me and said,
“I am sorry, Earthman, but
now I must go with them,
too.’’
They left our equipment in
great piles on the rotting
jungle floor.
A few moments later, a dis-
tant moaning wind sprang
up, fluttering the jungle fo-
liage as it approached. I knew
that wind well, I remembered
it from three years ago in Ar-
giv City. It was the Wailing
Wind. The Wind of the Green
God, which now had dipped
below the horizon. And far
away, straight ahead of us
through the jungle, so far
that the sound was almost
lost on the wind, I heard an-
other wailing noise, musical,
rhythmic, weird. The strange
double-reed instruments of
the Argivian priests, wailing
the loss of their God.
Ill
“That’s right, Taggert,’’
Gotten said later. “We’re go-
ing on, anyway.”
“You can’t.”
“We’re not going to wait
three years for another
chance.”
“Well, you can just count
me out.”
“You yellow bastard!” Got-
ten roared.
“Was he yellow when he
saved your life?” Helen said.
“That purple man would have
strangled you.”
“He’s yellow if he leaves us
out here alone. He knows the
way. We don’t.”
“I can’t blame you if you
go, Taggert,” Helen said
slowly.
“You’ll stay with him?
You and Dr. Kidder?”
“Yes. We’re in this to-
gether.”
“Even if I leave?”
“Yes.”
“Listen,” I said. “Without
bearers, you don’t have a
chance. Sure, I know the way,
but not like an Argivian does.
Maybe with Bonoi alone,
without the bearers, we could
have made it. But not alone.
Definitely not alone.”
“There are dangerous ani-
42
AMAZING STORIES
mals in the jungle?” Dr. Kid-
der asked.
“Maybe. I don’t know. That
isn’t it, doctor. We can take
care of the animals. Tm
thinking of the Argivians
who will be out at their shrine
for the Black Sunrise.”
“We’re Earthmen,” Gotten
said arrogantly. “We have
nothing to fear from sav-
ages.”
“They sacrifice to their
three kidnapped gods,” I said.
“Old and sick Argivians if
there’s no one else. But they
prefer out-worlders. Any out-
worlders will do, but they like
Earthmen best.”
“I have nothing against
you,” said Gotten blandly.
“You’re still in this for ten
percent if you want.”
I looked at him. Then at
Dr. Kidder, and Helen. There
was mute appeal in her eyes.
She wanted me to stay, but
she was too proud to say so. I
thought of the way she had
looked at me after how I’d
handled Karpa-ton. With hero
worship in her eyes, almost.
Then it disgusted me. Now,
all at once, it did not. I want-
ed her to look at me like that
again. I knew what my an-
swer would be. I would go
with them.
And then Gotten said, “But
if you don’t want the ten per-
cent, if you’re planning on
deserting us, I’m going to re-
port you to the W.B.I. when
we return to Argiv Gity.”
I stared at him without
speaking. Helen bit her lip.
Then I found my own gear
in one of the piles of equip-
ment the Argivians had left
behind them and began to
trudge with its weight on my
shoulders back down the trail
toward Argiv Gity. The jun-
gle floor, like all jungle floors,
was covered with a thick mat-
ting of rotting vegetation. I
heard nothing but a faint
rustling sound until I felt Hel-
en’s hand on my shoulder.
“Well, what is it?” I asked
coldly.
“For me,” she said. “I’m
asking you to do it for me.
Tagger t.”
“To go with you to the
shrine?”
“Yes. I can’t go back now.
I’ve dreamed of this too long.
I can’t go back and if I go
ahead without you. I’ll — I’ll
probaly be killed, won’t I?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m begging you,
Taggert. I can’t apologize for
Gotten’s behavior. I’m not
Gotten. I’m begging you for
me. There’s no turning back
for me, now. I won’t stop un-
til I’ve found that treasure —
or died trying.”
“Why?” I said.
KING OF THE BLACK SUNRISE
43
“Why? I don’t know why.
It’s the way I am. It’s me,
Taggert. I’m honest with my-
self.”
“If you’re going to commit
suicide, I don’t see why I
should.”
“Because I stand here ask-
ing you,” she said, “that’s
why. Because I’m begging
you.”
Had she been cheap about
it, had she thrown her arms
around my neck and offered
me her lips, I would have
been able to refuse. But damn
her, she was begging me —
and that was all. I nodded
finally.
“I’ll go with you,” I said.
Helen’s eyes were moist,
her lips slack and parted. She
looked like she’d just been
made love to : the treasure
was that important to her. As
we walked back toward the
others, she took my hand and
held it, drew my arm against
her side. I could feel her heart
pounding against her ribs and
I thought, she wouldn’t be
cheap about it. She wouldn’t
offer herself to me before I
gave her my answer, but she
was ready to offer herself
now. I grinned. It was a long
way to the Shrine of the
Three Gods and the nights,
with the green sun down, and
then the yellow one, and fin-
ally the purple sun, would be
cold.
I stopped grinning as we
neared the others. Helen’s
arm which was linked in mine
pressed more possessively, but
she was looking at Gotten.
She smiled right into his
eyes, coldly. A challenge, I
thought. She’s challenging
Gotten with me. That was all
there was to it. Wrap up your
dreams, Taggert, I thought.
You’ll be as cold as anyone
else on the long nights be-
tween here and the Shrine.
We held a brief council of
war. Antagonism flared be-
tween Gotten and me again.
“We’ll have to leave most of
this equipment behind,” I
said.
“That’s expensive stuff,”
Gotten sneered. “It’s all right
for you to say. You didn’t pay
for it.”
“Do you want to carry it
through the jungle?”
“We can carry some of it.”
“You can carry what you
want,” I said. “I’m taking
only what I have to.” I patted
the blaster strapped about my
waist. “This,” I said. “This is
essential.”
“Damn you, Taggert! You’ll
do what I tell you to.”
I shook my head. “No. I go
along under one condition. I
take orders from no one.”
44
AAAAZING STORIES
“The typical, snot-nosed ex-
patriate — ” Gotten began.
But Helen said, “That’s
enough, Larry. Taggert knows
more about the pickle we’re in
than you do. I think we ought
to take orders from Taggert.’’
Cotten’s handsome face
flushed, and he looked to Dr.
Kidder for support. But the
archaeologist shook his head.
“Taggert’s right,’’ he said.
“We’ll take weapons. We can
forage for food along the
way, can’t we? Of course. I’ll
have to take some of my dig-
ging equipment, but it isn’t
very heavy. But that’s all.’’
“That’s all,’’ said Helen.
Gotten grumbled something
I didn’t hear, and then we
began to march. After a
while, we came to accept the
distant wailing notes of the
Argivian religious music. I
began to think we were get-
ting closer to the sound, but
jungle noises are deceptive
and we still had a long way
to go.
Several hours later, as we
passed through a narrow de-
file, I found clusters of large
yellow berries which I’d seen
the Argivians eat in Argiv
Gity. We supped on them and
made ready to bivouac in the
open. Gotten said something
about the stupidity of leaving
our tents behind, but no one
KING OF THE BLACK SUNRISE
paid any attention. Then,
while Dr. Kidder and Helen
kindled a fire, I went off into
the brush looking for game.
I returned in half an hour
with the carcass of a blasted
kinpo, a small Argivian ante-
lope, slung across my shoul-
der. Helen said, “You look
like Tarzan of the Apes.’’
“I feel even hungrier,’’ I
told her, and proved it after
the carcass had been roasted
over the fire.
“We’ll divide the sleeping
period into four watches,’’ I
said later.
“Three,” Gotten told me.
“Helen doesn’t have to — ”
“I want to,” she said.
“What do we have to be
afraid of, anyway?” Gotten
wanted to know. “I haven’t
seen any signs of large ani-
mals.”
“Karpa-ton,” I told him,
and lay down to get some
sleep. Dr. Kidder, who said he
wasn’t sleepy, took the first
watch. Gotten was next, and
then Helen. I would take the
final watch.
I slept deeply and well, and
when Helen’s hand on my
shoulder roused me, I felt
rested and refreshed. “Any-
thing cooking?” I said.
“No. Only that music. Hear
it?”
I did. The wailing double-
reeds were worse than drums.
45
They got inside you somehow
and churned up something
which mankind has forgotten
for thousands of years but
which still resides in his dim
ancestral memory. They
worked on the vestigal nerves
at the base of your neck and
played, like tiny needles of
ice, up and down your spine.
“I'm not sleepy,” Helen
said. “Mind if I keep watch
with you?”
I shrugged, shaking my
head. I looked at the others.
Dr. Kidder was curled up
comfortably near the fire,
sleeping soundly. Gotten, big
and rangey, slept restlessly.
“Did you mean what you
said about Karpa-ton?” Helen
asked.
“Yes. He won't forget what
happened.”
“But there’s an Earth con-
sulate on Argiv. He wouldn’t
dare — ”
“Black Sunrise,” I remind-
ed her.
There was silence for a long
time after that. I stared
straight ahead into the pur-
ple-tinted foliage, thinking
that Helen had gone to sleep.
But finally she said, “Tag-
gert?”
“I’m listening.”
“Did you really kill that
man on Earth?”
I grinned.
46
“What’s so funny?”
“It’s just funny, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“I’ve met a lot of Earthmen
on the out-worlds. You’re the
first one who ever asked me
that.”
“You haven’t answered. Did
you kill him?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t kill
him.”
“I’m glad, Taggert.”
“Don’t be. I wanted to kill
him. I was chasing him.
There was an accident. He
died that way.”
“I’ll bet it was over a wom-
an.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Because I know you, Tag-
gert. It wouldn’t be over
money. Either money or a
woman. What else is there to
kill a man for?”
“It was a woman,” I admit-
ted.
“Married?”
“Yeah, my wife. But she
was no good. I found out the
hard way.”
“Taggert, I’m sorry.”
I laughed softly, watching
the embers crumble to ash in
the fire. “I’m not,” I said. “I
would have remained on
Earth all my life. This way,
at least I’ve seen most of the
galaxy.”
“Sweet lemon?” said Helen.
AMAZING STORIES
But there was no malice in
her voice.
“Maybe. But thanks for
asking.”
“Can’t you go back and
prove it?”
“I don’t want to, and that’s
the truth. I wouldn’t be happy
there.”
“You must have loved her a
lot.”
“Not now I don’t.”
“I like you, Taggert. That’s
the way you are. You love
hard and you hate hard.”
I shut my eyes and let the
dull red warmth of the fire
beat against the lids. I heard
her moving around, and then
I could smell her perfume.
All at once I felt her lips
brush with the lightest feather
touch across my cheek,
against my own lips. I sat up.
“What’s that for?” I said.
“For telling me the truth.”
I got my arms around her
and leaned over and kissed
her mouth, hard. Her lips at
first were stiff with surprise,
but then they parted for me.
It was a long kiss, and a good
one.
“What’s that for?” Helen
said afterwards.
“For asking,” I told her.
“I’ll keep on asking, if you
want.”
“I want,” I said.
But Gotten was sitting up
and staring at us. He said
KING OF THE BLACK SUNRISE
nothing, but he didn’t have to.
It was there in his eyes,
IV
Two sleeping periods later,
the yellow sun went down. It
was quite cold after that, for
although the purple one is the
brightest of the three Argiv-
ian suns, it was now low on
the southern horizon. The Ar-
givian music, which never
stopped now, had worked on
us slowly. I could see it in the
others’ eyes, in their nervous
gestures, in the fitful way
they slept, as if they heard
the music even while sleeping,
and were being moved to slow
subconscious frenzy by it.
“We’re near the shrine
now,” I said, as we broke
camp with only the purple
sun in the sky, its lower rim
already below the horizon.
Gloomy purple dusk pervaded
the jungle.
“How do you know?” Dr.
Kidder asked me.
I pointed at the high hills
which, bleak and saw-toothed,
reared their fangs above the
foliage ahead of us and bit
into the purple sky. “The Ar-
givians say the Shrine of the
Three Gods lies at the base of
those hills.”
“How will we recognize it,
Kent?” Helen demanded.
“Listen to the music,” I
47
said. “The Argivians are
there now, at the Shrine, wait-
ing for it to open. All we have
to do is follow our ears.”
“So now it’s Kent,” Gotten
growled. I looked at him in
surprise. He’d been carrying
his resentment in silence until
now. But his eyes were fur-
tive and red-rimmed, and a
muscle twitched at the base
of his jaw. It was the Argiv-
ian music, I thought. That
and Cotten’s personality, for
the music would affect a man
according to his own assets
and shortcomings.
“What do you mean by
that?” Helen asked him
coldly.
“It’s pretty clear, isn’t it?”
She shook her head, walk-
ing toward him slowly. “I
want you to say it, Larry.”
He flushed and told her,
“You used to look at me the
same way you’re looking at
Taggert now.”
“I never looked at you any
way at all. If you thought I
did, it was your imagination.”
“Oh, forget it,” Gotten said.
“And any way I look at
Kent Taggert is my business
and his and nothing for you
to talk about. You under-
stand?”
“I understand a lot of
things now,” Gotten said.
“Such as what?”
She was pushing him, I
thought. I didn’t know yet if I
approved or not, but I stood
there in silence and waited.
“Such as what kind of a
girl you are.”
I realized Helen had nee-
dled him some, but that did
it. Fists clenched at my sides,
I walked over to Gotten. “The
lady wants an apology,” I
said.
Gotten told me to go and do
something which I could nei-
ther do nor expect to see in
print. “She wants an apology
for you using that kind of
language in front of her too,”
I said.
Gotten smirked. “The very
gallant Mr. Kent Taggert —
fugitive and murderer.”
It was then that Helen
slapped his face. It was a
hard open-handed blow and it
sent Gotten reeling a step
down the trail. For an instant
Helen’s handprint was very
white on his cheek, then flood-
ed with red. He growled like
an animal or an Argivian in
the music trance, then came
for her. He grabbed her arm
at the wrist and began to
twist it.
That was as far as he got.
I wrenched his fingers from
around Helen’s wrist and
cuffed him across the jaw
with my knuckles. He swung
a wild right, lunging after it
/a
AMAZING STORIES
awkwardly and calling me
nasty names. I ducked and let
him wrap himself around my
shoulder with the wild blow,
then drove my left fist twice
into his gut and my right,
short and hard, over his
heart. He clawed me as he
went down, and I was good
and mad. Only the fact that
Helen was there watching -
stopped me from giving him
a knee in his mouth on the
way down. Women don’t think
that’s a fair way to fight.
Somehow, for them, you can
only use your fists.
“Enough?” I said. I stood
over Gotten with my fists ball-
ed, waiting.
He sat there. “Apologize to
the lady,” I said.
He shook his head and suck-
ed in great lungfulls of air.
He did not yet have enough
strength to get up.
“He doesn’t have to apolo-
gize, Kent,” Helen said.
“Maybe I deserved it. I was
egging him on.”
“Well — ” I started. Now it
was my turn to be stubborn.
But Dr. Kidder said: “I’d
like to remind all of you that
there are more convenient
places to fight or make love
than the Argivian jungle.
We’re out here after the
treasure of the Black Sunrise,
or did you forget it?” His
eyes behind the glasses were
not angry, but very annoyed.
You could tell he thought he
was talking to a bunch of
children.
Maybe he was, I thought. I
grinned ruefully. “I shouldn’t
have hit, you,” I told Gotten,
and offered him my hand to
help him to his feet.
He scrambled away from
me on hands and knees and
stood up. “I’m going to' get
you for that, Taggert,” he
promised me.
Just then the double-reed
Argivian music stopped. I
looked at the horizon, where
the swollen purple orb of Ar-
giv’s biggest sun had now
been cut in half. A chill wind
knifed across the jungle.
“Why did they stop?” Hel-
en asked me. Her eyes said
she did not like the sudden
quiet. It was as if the Argiv-
ians were waiting for some-
thing. For us, maybe.
“The sun,” I said, point-
ing. “For three years its rays
shine on the doorway to the
Shrine. Then, when it’s set-
ting and the angle is no
longer right, the door opens.
That’s what the Argivians
were waiting for. They’re in-
side the Shrine now.”
“In that case,” Dr. Kidder
wanted to know, “How are we
going to get inside?”
I looked at him, laughing.
“That,” I said, “is your prob-
KING OF THE BLACK SUNRISE
49
lem. That’s why no Earth-
man’s ever seen the Treasure
of the Black Sunrise and lived
to tell of it.”
“If we can draw them out
of the cave — ”
“How? They’ve waited
three years for this, and now
that it’s come, they’re afraid
that if they don’t keep on
praying and worshipping and
offering sacrifices at the
Shrine of the Three Gods, the
kidnapped gods — their suns —
will never return. You could
not even drive them outside
with fire.”
“How far are we from the
Shrine?” Helen asked me.
“I’m not sure. No more
than two or three miles, I
figure. You can see the hills.
It’s right there, at the base of
the hills.”
“We’ve got blasters,” Got-
ten said. “We could force our
way in.”
“Against hundreds of wor-
shippers?” I asked him.
“Don’t be a fool. Maybe we’d
kill some of them, if that’s
what you want, but in the
end they’d get us.”
“Instead of standing here
talking about it,” suggested
Dr. Kidder, “why don’t we go
on to the Shrine?”
I nodded. “We have no
choice now. When the purple
sun goes down, it will be
completely dark. And cold. It
never gets that cold on Earth,
not even in the Arctic.”
Helen touched my arm with
her fingers. “I — I see why you
didn’t want to come, Kent. If
we can get inside the cave
somehow, the Argivians will
probably kill us.”
“Not probably," I said.
“They will.”
“But if we don’t get inside,
we’ll freeze to death. Kent,
we were very foolish coming
here. But you were very
brave.”
“Brave? Why?”
“Because you knew better.
You didn’t want to come.”
“I had no choice. There was
the man from the W.B.I.”
“No, I mean the second
time. Out on the trail. When
Bonoi and his bearers left.”
“I was foolish, too.” I
shrugged and added, “Treas-
ure trove. I guess people have
gone to worse places than
this, looking for it.”
We began to walk forward.
It was colder now, much
colder. We weren’t dressed
for it and that was my fault,
for we’d left warmer gar-
ments back on the trail near
Argiv City. I’d tried too hard
then to get my point across.
I walked with my arm around
Helen’s waist and I could feel
her trembling. It was a long
way to Earth, but the three
50
AMAZING STORIES
dozen or so miles to Argiv
City seemed just as far.
It happened very quickly.
Gotten and Dr. Kidder were
half a dozen paces ahead of
us on the trail, - the fading
purple light filtering through
the foliage to their left. Got-
ten yelled something and then
I heard the brief staccatto
blast of his hand-weapon.
“Look out!" Dr. Kidder
cried.
Instinctively, I dropped to
the ground, pulling Helen
down with me. A short Ar-
givian spear sang through air
above our heads, burying its
bronze head in the trunk of a
tree behind us, and quivering
there. There was shouting
and the stamping of many
feet and a single loud wailing
note on one of the double-reed
instruments.
“Don’t move," I hissed at
Helen, and scrambled for-
ward on hands and knees, to
where Gotten was crouched
with his blaster.
“Don’t get them any mad-
der than they are,” I advised
him. “You’ll get some of
them, but so what?”
For answer, he fired the
blaster again. I heard a howl
out there somewhere in the
dense undergrowth which
was now, for the first time in
three years, brittle with cold.
I tugged at Gotten’s arm and
KING OF THE BLACK SUNRISE
felt the lethal blast of his
weapon singe my cheek. I
wrestled it from his hand and
chucked it in Dr. Kidder’s di-
rection. Without, standing up,
I cupped my hands to my
mouth and shouted in the Ar-
givian: “We have sheathed
our weapons. We do not re-
sist.”
There was a triumphant
howling, another clear note
from the double-reed instru-
ment, and then silence.
Someone came marching —
alone — through the jungle to-
ward us.
If it were any other Ar-
givian, I thought in despair,
we might have had some slim
hope. But revealing himself
through the uridehgrowth,
haughty and arrogant and
very grim in the trappings of
a Black Sunrise Priest, knee-
high boots and rawhide trou-
sers and a mantle of black
and gold, the unhealed wound
ugly across his cheek, was the
Argivian Karpa-ton.
V
Black Sunrise.
Argiv — planet of a triple
star system. And once, for
one brief terrible night every
third year, the three suns set.
It was very cold as we ap-
proached the Shrine, and very
dark. The dark and the cold
51
seemed to go together. They
were the bleak bare womb
from which Argiv and every
other speck of cosmic dust
sprang in the eons-distant,
primordial beginning. They
were the zenith and the nadir
and all in between. They were
the sum total of everything
and what had gone before
worlds and life and man and
what would come after them.
And something of this the Ar-
givians must have known in
their night of the Black Sun
rise, something of it they
must have sensed in a way no
other planetary people could
sense it, once every third year
when the darkness came.
“Tm so cold, Kent,” Helen
said. “I — I can hardly walk.”
“We’re almost there,” I
said.
Around us were a mob of
Argivians. How many, I
couldn’t tell in the darkness.
They didn’t touch us. They
weren’t holding us or leading
us or anything, but they had
formed a tight circle about us
and if we tried to get away
we would feel the bronze of
their spears. And if we did
not? If we managed to es-
cape, what then? We would
never survive the cold of Ar-
giv’s brief night. They had us
and they knew it.
“I see something up ahead,”
Helen told me. The wind was
52
fierce now, whipping dead and
dying branches against us,
tearing at our clothing.
There was something ahead
of us — a light, a pinpoint pure
white and dazzling, in the
complete darkness. The
Shrine, I thought. The Shrine
of the Three Gods. The Lost
Gods. . . .
Someone was shouting now,
in the Argivian. I heard Cot-
ten’s voice, agonized, in Eng-
lish, and a quick bubbling
scream which ended in muf-
fled silence.
Then, for the first time,
hands were laid on us. Rough
hard hands, but it was so cold
I could hardly feel them. I felt
myself dragged forward. I
didn’t care. I wanted it. There
was light up ahead — and
warmth. Better to die there,
with the warmth on your skin
and the good white light in
your eyes, than out here in
the dark numbing cold.
Abruptly, we were thrust
inside the cave. It was so un-
expectedly bright, I couldn’t
see. I felt my shoulder scrape
against rough stone, felt the
cloth of my jacket rip. Then
I was stumbling, hand in
hand with Helen, and I sensed
rather than saw the roof over
our head rising high, high,
lost in iridescent mist and
haze. The cavern was enor-
mous, that I knew. But I
AMAZING STORIES
could not see. And by the time
my vision returned, we had
been herded through the
great cavern and beyond it to
a passageway so low, you had
to stoop to get through it.
Here the Argivians left us
and departed with the sound
of stone grating on stone.
It was a small cave, the
walls luminous. It was rough-
ly square, ten paces in each
direction. Plenty of room for
three people.
Three, not four.
Gotten wasn’t with us. .
“What happened to Lar-
ry?” Helen asked me.
“I don’t know. I think he
tried to get away.”
“They killed him?”
“No. They wouldn’t do that,
except here in the Shrine.”
“VVhat’s going to happen to
us?”
I shrugged.
Bitterly, Dr. Kidder said,
“We were there, in the cav-
ern. With the Treasure of the
Black Sunrise. I couldn’t see.
I was blinded.”
“You’ll see the treasure,” I
predicted grimly. “When the
Argivians are ready.”
“Will we be — sacrificed?”
Helen asked.
Again I shrugged. “It’s up
to the Argivians, not us. But
this I know. Each night of the
Black Sunrise, they crown a
mock king here at the Shrine.
They load him with gifts and
treasures and bow to him and
mock him and do his fancied
bidding. But when the first
sun, the green one, sheds light
upon the jungle, they kill
him.”
“One of us?” Dr. Kidder
croaked.
“Gotten, probably. That’s
why he’s not with us now.
Mostly, the mock king is a
sick and old Argivian, but if
they can find an Earthman....”
“Stop it,” Helen pleaded.
“We’ll have to save him.”
“How?” I asked her. “Do
you have any idea how we can
save even ourselves. That
stone wedged into the en-
trance of this cave probably
weigh three tons.”
“You mean they’ll leave us
here to starve to death?”
“No. We’ll take part in the
ceremony, you can be sure of
that. Even if their religion
insists on only one mock king,
Karpa-t&n will see to it.”
Helen trembled against me
as the great rough-hewn stone
door to our cave opened.
Three Argivians entered with
trays of food. All of them
wore the purple and gold
mantles of the religious call-
ing, revived one night every
three years. Otherwise, the
Argivians were atheists. The
food was hot and steaming
KING OF THE BLACK SUNRISE
53
and smelled good. The trays
were deposited, the savory
food awaiting us on the floor.
The three Argivians wheeled
about and headed for the exit.
Then one of them turned and
looked me full in the face and
said, ‘T am sorry, Taggert.”
It was Bonoi, the head bearer.
A straw to grasp at, I
thought. Bonoi, who had been
reluctant once before and was
reluctant again. Bonoi, who
had not tasted of civilization
the way Gurr of Argiv City
had, but who knew the ways
of Earthmen nevertheless.
“Wait a minute, Bonoi,” I
called softly. “Bonoi — ”
But the ponderous door
rolled shut.
The food was delicious, pre-
pared, it seemed, with great
care. The mock king, I
thought. Wined and dined
and feted and obeyed in small
ways — and slaughtered. But
we had not been given the
mock king’s raiment.
Gotten.
I thought of Gotten out
there in the big cavern, the
treasure cavern. Gotten would
not know the meaning of the
rite. He would wonder about
his strange kinghood, and fin-
ally accept it. I tried to es-
cape, he would think. These
savages respect me. Not the
others, but me. They respect
me.
And thinking that, he would
die. I hated Gotten but at that
moment I felt pity for him.
Gotten, the King of the
Black Sunrise.
When the great door swung
in toward us again, I knew
they were ready for us. They
said nothing, but merely wait-
ed at the entrance to the small
cave. Helen looked at me and
I nodded, and we stood up
and marched outside with
them and Dr. Kidder.
I was right about Gotten.
Ignorant of what was to
come, the newly-crowned
King of the Black Sunrise
was seated on his great
throne.
Before him, covering the
floor of the great cavern,
strewn about carelessly as if
the Three Gods were not very
particular, was the Treasure
of the Black Sunrise. It’s al-
ways been an enigma clear
through this end of the gal-
axy. Do the Argivians really
store a treasure for their lost
gods? Is it as big as the leg-
ends say?
We had the proof before
our eyes, and if the Argivians
had their way, I thought we
were going to die with our
knowledge. There were gems
in casks and gems on neck-
laces, glittering, coruscating,
alive with prismatic gleam-
54
AMAZING STORIES
ings ; there were ingots of
gold and coins of gold and
casks of gold dust. And there
was the rare white twin of
gold, platinum. And some of
the metal, in- tiny phials,
glowed coldly. It was radioac-
tive and it might be deadly,
and only the secret Priests of
the Black Sunrise knew
where the Argivians had ob-
tained it.
The Priests — for all the
Argivians in the great-vault-
ed caverns were Priests —
had formed an enorrnous cir-
cle around Cotten’s throne.
They danced there and chant-
ed and I saw that Gotten, a
wild smile on his face, was
cloaked in a purple and gold
mantle finer than all the
others. A crown with a single
huge blood red ruby was on
his head. On his knees at Cot-
ten’s feet was a lone Argivian
in a robe not of purple but of
saffron.
Gotten said, in a distant
dreamy voice, “More gold for
your king.”
The saffron-robed Argivian
smiled and waved his hand.
Struggling with the weight of
three large ingots, half a
dozen Argivians deposited
them at Cotten’s feet, adding
them to a pile of gems and
precious metal.
Then Gotten saw us as we
were thrust into the large
cavern. “You’re a fool, Tag-
gert!” he cried. “You’re all
superstitious fools. These Ar-
givians were looking for
someone with guts. I’m their
king. Whatever I say, they’ll
do.”
“You don’t understand — ” I
began, but one of the Argiv-
ians with us ordered me to be
quiet in his native tongue.
“Watch,” said Gotten.
“You,” he addressed the saf-
fron robed Priest. “I want
them on their knees. All of
them.” The Priest, who was
also interpreter, shouted his
command in the Argivian. At
once the whole vast assem-
blage dropped to its knees,
chanting, all the purple rob-
ed figures prostrating them-
selves before Gotten.
He was playing his role to
the hilt. For the Argivians he
was perfect. He was their
King. Their mock-king who
would rule them for the brief
night of the Black Sunrise,
fulfilling the dictates of their
religion. But when the first of
Argiv’s three suns came up,
they no longer would have
need for their mock-king.
This Gotten did not under-
stand. When morning came he
would be a votive offering to
the three returning gods.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
“You don’t believe me?”
Gotten cried. “Then watch
KING OF THE BUCK SUNRISE
55
again.” Foam flecked his lips
and his eyes were wild. “Strip
three of them,” he told the
interpreter. “Have them flog-
ged.”
Three purple mantled fig-
ures were obediently disrob-
ed, fell flat on their faces be-
fore Cotten’s throne, were
whipped there with a rawhide
lash until the purple skin of
their backs was raw.
“They’ll do anything at all
for me,” Gotten cried. “Any-
thing! The treasure is mine,
don’t you see? It’s mine be-
cause I’m their King. They
want to give it to me. And
I’ll tell you why. Do you want
to know why, Taggert? Be-
cause they believe I’m going
to bring the three gods back.
They believe only I can do it.
Isn’t that so?” He nudged the
interpreter with his knee.
“Yes, Lord,” the Argivian
said. Was there the faintest
trace of a mocking smile on
his lips?
I didn’t like Gotten, but he
was an Earthman. I had to
tell him the truth. I broke
away from our captors and
cried, “Don’t be a fool, Tag-
gert! You’re a mock-king.
You’ll rule them for the night
of the Black Sunrise, and
then you’ll be their sacrifice
to the return of their gods.”
Gotten laughed. He rocked
forward and almost tumbled
from his throne of gold. He
finally said, “Still trying,
aren’t you, Taggert? I’ll tell
you something. At first I
thought I would share the
treasure with all of you. We
were in this thing together,
I told myself. It was only fair.
But the world is for the
strong, Taggert. And you’re
weak. Afraid and weak.”
Abruptly, his features
twisted in a scowl. “And Hel-
en,” he said. “Should I share
my wealth with Helen? Look
at this treasure, all of you.
It’s mine. Now maybe you
know it’s mine. But tell me,
should I share it with Helen
because she preferred a fu-
gitive murderer to me? Should
I?”
“You’re in no position to
share anything,” I said, try-
ing to reason with him. “Why
do you think I’m telling you
this? It’s for your own good,
Gotten. Maybe there’s still a
chance if — ”
“Shut up,” Gotten said cold-
ly. And, to the interpreter,
“Shut him up.”
The saffron robed figure
bowed. “It shall be as you say,
Lord.”
Two Argivians came for
me, herded me back to where
Helen and Dr. Kidder were
waiting. Suddenly one of
them lashed out with his fist,
56
AMAZING STORIES
clubbing me across the jaw. I
tumbled over backwards and
sat there, wiping the blood
from my lips and cursing
Gotten.
“Are you all right, Kent?”
Helen said.
I looked at her. Something
of Cotten’s hysteria had
reached me. “What the hell
does it matter?” I said.
My voice must have car-
ried, for Gotten nodded and
repeated, “Sure, what does it
matter? I’m not going to
share this treasure with you,
with any of you. Do you real-
ize how much is here? It will
make me the richest man in
the galaxy. It’s my boldness
which cowed the Argivians,
you understand? And what’s
needed, what’s needed to
make everything certain?
One final bold stroke, some-
thing which their supersti-
tious- minds will eat up. Do
you know what that is, Tag-
gart?” He was off the throne
now, examining the treasure
heaped at his feet. He scooped
the gems up and let them run
between his fingers, looking
molten in the torchlight.
“I’ll tell you,” he said. “I’m
going to give the Argivians
their sacrifices. Three sacri-
fices to their three gods.”
“You’re mad. Gotten!” Dr.
Kidder shouted at him de-
fiantly. For the archaeologist
KING OF THE BLACK SUNRISE
knew what he meant, and so
did I. Helen looked at me and
bit her lip and waited for
Gotten to speak.
He turned to the saffron
robed Priest and said, “Do
you want your gods to re-
turn?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“For that you will need
human sacrifice?”
“So it is written. Lord.”
“Then I, your King, give
you human sacrifice.” He
pointed to Helen, Dr. Kidder
and me. “These three are your
sacrifice,” he said.
“Larry, for God’s sake,”
Helen cried.
“It could have been differ-
ent for you,” he told her.
“But you wanted it this way,
didn’t you? I didn’t ask you
to fling yourself at Taggert.”
He addressed the saffron-
robed interpreter again.
“You! Do you understand my
command? Are you ready to
obey your King?”
“Yes, Lord.”
He pointed in our direction
again. “Then kill them.”
VI
The interpreter shouted
something at the purple man-
tled Priests. A moment later,
three of them, armed with
gold - hilted, gem - encrusted
ceremonial swords, came to-
57
ward us. What was it Gotten
had said? He had cowed them
with boldness. In his own
case, he was wrong, but I
thought, you’re an Earthman,
Taggert. You’re not going to
die waiting on your knees for
death’s sword stroke. I didn’t
wait for the three execution-
ers. I ran forward to meet
them.
The swords were heavy, so
heavy that the Priests had to
wield them with two hands. I
moved swiftly and saw the
gleam of one great blade in
the torchlight, felt the swift
passage of air as the sword
swung in a swift arc before
my face. Then I was inside
the Priest’s extended sword
arm, grappling with him. I
heard Helen scream. I
wrenched the sword free and
turned around, plunging back
toward Helen.
The second Priest stood
over her, his own sword
raised. Her forearm was up
to meet it, as if with that
puny defense she could hope
to stop the razor-sharp blade.
“Stop!” I roared in the Ar-
givian, hoping that one word,
shouted peremptorily, could
stay the blade long enough. It
did more.
The Argivian whirled and
faced me, swinging the heavy
sword with both hands. I
brought my own blade up and
parried his blow, the metal
ringing in a strident bell note.
I swung again, wildly and
fiercely, knowing our lives de-
pended on it. The Priest’s
head leaped from his shoul-
ders on a quick double foun-
tain of blood. Even in death,
his face still looked surprised.
The Argivians were surg-
ing forward now, all around
us. Their low steady chanting
had given way to a babble of
confused sound. Far away, I
heard Gotten yelling some-
thing to his interpreter, but I
couldn’t make out the words.
Helen was looking at the
headless thing on the ground
and opening her mouth to
scream, but no sound came
from her throat.
Almost, I had forgotten the
third priest. It was only then
that Helen was able to
scream. I whirled and leaped
aside, feeling the blade grate
against my ribs. I locked the
Priest’s extended arm under
mine and brought my knee up
into his groin. He fell away
from me, his sword clattering
against the stone ground.
I looked around. There was
no place to go. It had been
defiance in the face of death,
but that was all. Helen cow-
ered against me, burying her
face against my shoulder. The
Argivians still milled about in
confusion, but it wouldn’t
58
AAUZING STORIEG
last. As soon as Gotten or
the safFron-robed interpreter
could make himself heard, we
were finished.
Helen looked up at me, her
eyes misty. “Kent, I — I want
you to know — whatever hap-
pens — Kent, I love you.”
I grinned at her. That was
defiance too. I leaned down to
kiss her. A kiss — and then
swift death.
Just then, an Argivian
broke from the crowd and
came sprinting toward us. I
raised the sword — and let it
fall.
It was Bonoi.
“This much I owe you,
Earthman,” he said. “To your
left, as far as you can go. A
passage. If you can make it,
go. But from this day on you
shall never be welcome on
Argiv.”
He said this, and disap-
peared quickly into the mob.
His life depended on the speed
of his disappearance, and he
knew it. I turned to Helen and
Dr. Kidder. “Come on,” I
said.
Dr. Kidder bent to pick up
one of the ceremonial swords,
grunted under its weight and
dropped it. Then the three of
us ran. Here and there an
Argivian tried to stop us, but
they were still disorganized.
Three of them fell before my
sword, but there was a hot
wet wound high on my left
arm and I had to drop the
weapon because I could not
wield it with one hand.
Faces, purple faces swam
before us in the crimson
torchlight. Then, suddenly,
we were clear of them. The
dark maw of a passage loom-
ed before us, and we plunged
inside, still running. We could
not see. We could not think.
We could only hope.
The passage turned and
twisted and if there were
other passages we missed, if
we were burrowing deeper in-
to the bowels of Argiv, this
we could not know.
All at once the passage
opened on another large
chamber, where torches were
stuck in wall-niches. A figure
loomed before us. “I heard
Bonoi,” he said in the Argiv-
ian. “Bonoi has paid for his
crime.”
It was Karpa-ton.
He swung a wild right fist
and I tried to block it with
my left hand. It was an auto-
matic gesture, learned in half
a hundred brawls across the
length of the galaxy. But
now, with my left arm hang-
ing limp and useless, it was
wasted. I took Karpa-ton’s
blow flush on my jaw and felt
myself falling. I clawed for
his legs as I went down, but
KING OF THE BLACK SUNRISE
59
his knees blurred up at me
and I went over on my back.
Dimly, I was aware of Hel-
en, small and almost delicate
next to the giant purple man,
trying to wrestle him away
from me. He thrust her aside
and brushed Dr. Kidder away
with his outflung left arm and
leaped down at me.
I brought my feet up and
heard the air rush from his
lungs as they caught him
squarely in the chest. “Run!”
I called to Helen. “Run while
you can!”
Then Karpa-ton and I were
rolling over and over and
there was no sound, utterly
no sound except the noise our
bodies made on the rough
stone ground, but we both
knew without the need to say
it that only one of us would
get up alive.
Karpa-ton’s strong fingers
closed on my throat and his
face leered at me, inches
above my own. I couldn’t
breathe. 'There was a distant
throbbing in my ears and an-
other sound, closer, Helen’s
sobbing. I groped blindly
with my hands, found some-
thing to hold',' wrenched.
Karpa-ton grunted but held
on grimly and there was now
a great burning pressure in
my chest. I reached up again
and got the palms of my
hands on his cheeks, pushing.
The fingers tightened on my
throat, choking the life from
me.
I jabbed at Karpa-ton’s
eyes with my thumbs.
At first there was nothing,
no response, no indication
that I had hurt him. But then
I felt a wetness on my hands
and heard— far away as if he
were still in the cavern of the
Three Gods — Karpa-ton’s
scream. He rolled off me and
wailed.
And stared sightlessly at
me from empty eye-sockets.
“Kill me!” he pleaded in
the Argivian. “This way I
cannot live.”
I stood up and moved away
from him. I felt bile gagging
in my throat and turned
quickly away, thinking he
would get his wish because,
blinded, he would never find
his way from that cavern.
With Helen and Dr. Kid-
der, I ran.
The passage seemed end-
less, dark as the Black Sun-
rise night outside, but not
cold, warmed by the fires of
Argiv’s deep interior. And
then, after what seemed
hours, the passage began to
climb, I felt it in the muscles
of my calves. Soon we were
struggling upward, panting.
If the passage were a maze, a
labyrinth. . . .
60
AMAZING STORIES
And then, abruptly, we
were outside. It was cold, but
not as cold as it had been
when we entered the cavern.
And low on the horizon, we
could see Argi-v’s green sun
returning, the first of its
three gods.
We walked for a time in
silence and came, suddenly, to
the entrance to the great cav-
ern. We stood back in the
shadows and watched the Ar-
givians filing out, greeting
their returned god.
High up over the entrance,
so high that at first we could
not tell what they were, were
many objects, gleaming white
in a long line. When the light
grew better, we could see
them.
Skulls. Hundreds of them,
each adorned with a crown,
the single blood-red ruby
gleaming on it.
The last Argivian filed from
the cavern, bowed to the
green sun. With a long stick,
he poked something up high
over his head, until it caught
on an unseen hook. Then he
turned and walked down the
trail.
Helen turned away, whim-
pering. What had been placed
there along with the long line
of skulls was Cotton’s still
grinning head.
"We could go back inside
for the treasure,” Dr. Kidder
said as Helen bound the
wound on my arm.
“Without knowing when
the door will close?” I asked
him. “It wouldn’t open again
for three years.”
Dr. Kidder sighed and said,
“At least we’ve seen it. We’ve
done that, and lived.”
“Yes,” I said. I was think-
ing of Larry Gotten, I could
not help feeling sorry for
him. I turned to Helen, “Did
you mean what you said in-
side there?”
“Yes. Oh yes, Kent.”
“I can’t go back to Earth,”
I told her. “You know that.
Now we can’t stay on Argiv
either, but if you’ll have
me. . . .”
“Kent. Kent, I’ll have you.”
“Then there’s a great big
galaxy to see.” I winked. We
were safe now. The sounds of
the Argivians faded down the
trail back toward their city.
They would know the ways of
civilization again by the time
they reached it. We could get
a second-hand ship with the
little money I had, drop Dr.
Kidder where he wanted to
go, and start seeing the
galaxy.
“But listen, Kent,” Helen
said. “Let’s get one thing
straight. No more treasures.
I — I think I’m cured.”
“No,” I said devoutly. “No
more treasures.” the end
KING OF THE BLACK SUNRISE
61
62
By PAUL FAIRMAN
The
COSMIC
FRAME
T he blue light flashed out
beyond Pelham Woods. It
was seen by several of the
boys lounging in front of the
barber shop on the main
street of Kensington Corners.
“Now what in the nation was
that?” one of them asked.
“Low lightning. What
else?”
A boy, a girl, a sleek-lined convert-
ible and a lonely road. It was the
perfect setting for romance — until
a weird figure stepped into the glare
of the headlights. The dull crunch
of splintering bones told the story
of one more death on the highway.
But there was a unique kind of
problem here: how can there be a
case of manslaughter when the vic-
tim isn't human?
“Didn’t look like lightning.
Held too long. Besides, there’s
no clouds over there.”
“Might be some low ones
you can’t see for the trees.”
Sam Carter, fresh from a
late-afternoon shave, came
out of the barber shop and
said, “What are you fellows
arguing about?”
"Just saw a flying saucer.”
Sam grinned. “Only one?
Nobody’s got a right to brag
these days unless they see at
least six. And they’ve all got
to spout at least five colors.”
‘This one was blue.”
“Always preferred the yel-
low ones myself.” The boys
grinned lazily and Sam look-
ed across the street and call-
ed, “Lee! Hold up. I’m walk-
ing your way.”
Lee Hayden, a big, sour-
faced man stopped and wait-
ed and when Sam Carter
came abreast, asked, “What
are those no-good loafers jab-
bering about today?”
“Flying saucers. A blue one
this time.”
“Uh-huh. Good a way as
any to kill valuable time.”
“Oh, they’re all right, Lee.
Say — it looks as though
things might be getting seri-
ous between our kids.”
Lee Hayden snorted. “Darn
fool kids. Don’t know their
own minds. It’s a sign of the
times.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.
My Johnny’s pretty serious
about life. I’ve got a hunch
Joan will be good for him.”
Lee scowled. “Kids these
days never have a thought
about tomorrow — where the
next dollar’s coming from. All
they think about is getting
hitched — making more trou-
ble for themselves — going in-
to debt.”
“It always seems to work
out, though. Nothing wrong
with either of them that mar-
riage won’t cure.” Sam Carter
was one of the few men in
Kensington Corners who lik-
ed Lee Hayden. Most people:
resented his sour outlook on
life and his money-grubbing
instincts. Sam understood the
man, however, and this was
fortunate for the sake of
Johnny and Joan. Sam said,
“Looks like their date to-
night’s a pretty important
one. Johnny asked me for the
Packard. Doesn’t want to
propose to his girl, I guess,
in that stripped-down hot rod
of his.”
“They’re too young to get
married.”
“Well, maybe it won’t hap-
pen for a while,” Sam said,
easily. “See you later, Lee.”
Sam turned in at his gate and
Lee Hayden went on down
the street, scowling as usual.
While, out beyond Pelham
Woods, the space ship with
the blue exhaust settled on
the surface of Nelson’s pond
and sank from sight.
Sam Carter’s phone rang
sharply. He awoke and shook
the sleep from his eyes. He
snapped on the light and not-
64
A/AAZING STORIES
ed that it was one-thirty as he
picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hello — Dad! Are you
awake? Listen to me.
Please — ”
“Johnny! What in the dev-
il’s wrong? You in trouble?”
“Bad trouble, Dad!”
Sam’s feet were on the
floor. "An accident? Anybody
hurt? Damn it, boy! You
should have been home a long
time ago.”
“Don’t lecture me. Dad.
Just listen!”
Where are you? Tell me
about it.”
“I took Joan to the dance
at Storm Lake and we were
on the way home when — ”
“When what? Talk, boy!”
“We hit—”
“You killed somebody?”
“Yes — well, no — we — ”
“For heaven’s sake, John-
ny! Calm down and tell me.
Either you did or you didn’t.
Don’t tell me you ran away
from an accident!”
“No — listen. Dad, will you
just hang up and get out here
as fast as you can? I need
help. I need help bad. Just get
out here!”
“Okay, son I’ll try and
make that hot rod of yours
go — ”
“It’s shot. Dad — it won’t
run. Call Mr. Hayden. Use his
car.”
“All right. Where are you?”
“I’m calling from a farm-
house on Garner Road —
Frank William’s place. He’s
a farmer. You know that back
road where — ?”
“I know. Where did you
have the trouble ? Where’s the
car?”
“At the bend about two
miles from Storm Lake.
That’s where it — it happened.
Joan and I’ll go back there
and wait.”
“Stay where you are — we’ll
pick you up.”
“No Dad! I didn’t tell these
people what happened. We’ll
wait near the car.”
“All right, anything you
say. I’ll make it as fast as I
can.”
Ten minutes later, Sam
Carter was sitting beside Lee
Hayden as the latter pointed
his Chevrolet toward Storm
Lake. “Damn fool kids!” Lee
muttered. “Why didn’t you
find out what happened? They
may have killed somebody.
Probably did. The least he
could have done was tell you.”
“Let’s just get there and
find out,” Sam said with
tightness in his voice.
They went into Garner
Road from the south end and
Lee drove slowly along the
ruts and chuckholes. “Why in
tarnation did they pick a road
like this?”
THE COSMIC FRAME
65
“It probably looked pretty
good to them.”
“I wonder how good it
looks now?”
“Can’t you drive a little
faster?"
“And break a spring? I’m
doing the best I can.”
Sam held his impatience in
check until the headlights
picked out the rear end of the
Packard. It stood squarely in
the middle of the road.
“Doesn’t look as though
there’s any damage,” Lee
said.
“We can't see the front end
yet.”
Lee pulled up fifty feet back
and the two men got out.
There was a flash of white
and the two young people
appeared from some bushes
by the roadside. Joan, a pretty
little brunette, looked ethereal
in her white party dress —
out of place in spike-heel
pumps on this lonely country
road. Johnny Carter’s hand-
some young face was drawn
and pale.
“What were you two hid-
ing from?” Lee demanded.
Sam asked, “What’s wrong
here? There’s no other car.”
“It wasn’t a crackup. Dad.
It’s around in front. Come on.
Joany — ^you stay here.”
“I — I feel a litle weak. I’ll
get into the Chevy.”
Johnny helped her in and
66
closed the door. Then he turn-
ed and said, “Come on.” As
they walked around the Pack-
ard, he added, “Now brace
yourselves. You’re going to
see something you never saw
before in your lives.”
They rounded the car and
stood for a moment. Then
Johnny snapped on the Pack-
ard’s headlights and Lee Hay-
den croaked, “Great God in
heaven! Is it real?”
Sam Carter felt a chill run
both ways from the center of
his spine, freezing his legs
and rendering him mute.
Johnny said, “We were
driving along and I wasn’t
negligent — I swear it. Maybe
not too alert, but who’d ex-
pect anyone — anything — to
appear on this road without
lights? Anyhow, I saw a flash
of it and hit the brakes, but
it was too late. I thought it
was a man at first and I got
out and — and actually picked
it up before I realized — ” He
took an unconscious step
backward and rubbed the
sleeves of his coat as though
they were covered with filth.
Still frozen, Sam Carter
tried to find thoughts to de-
scribe the horrible thing. It
was not more than four feet
long and had a head far too
large for the thin body. Its
skin was green, the shades
varying from deep to very
AMAZING STORIES
pale. It had thin legs and two
spiderlike arms ending in
hands with thin delicate fin-
gers and a thumb on either
side. Its eyes were lidless and
sunk into bony pockets in the
round, pale green skull. There
was a network of dark veins
all over the body and the feet
were shapeless pads with
neither toes nor heels.
There was a full minute of
complete silence. Then Lee
Hayden got out a few words.
“Is — is it dead?”
“It’s dead all right,” John-
ny said. “When I first came
around the car — after I hit it
— the big veins were pulsing
— you could see its blood — or
whatever’s in there, moving
through. Then they got slow-
er and stopped altogether.”
“That blue light the boys
saw,” Sam muttered. “It was
a space ship this time.”
Lee Hayden, though his
face was still filled with loath-
ing, seemed to have recovered
somewhat. “This one must
have wandered away. Never
saw a car before. Didn’t know
there was any danger.”
“Probably attracted by the
headlights — held like a moth.”
Johnny said, “It’s ugly
right enough, but it looks
kind of pathetic, too — lying
there dead. Never knew what
hit it.”
Sam came out of his shock.
“One of us had better go for
the sheriff. You go, Johnny.
Take the Chevy and drop
Joan off at home.”
“Okay.” The boy turned
away.
Lee Hayden had been star-
ing at the hideous thing and
a calculating light was now
dawning in his eyes. “Wait a
minute, Johnny.” Lee raised
his eyes to Sam Carter. “You
realize what this means?”
“I realize that — ”
“This is something from
outer space, man ! An — an ex-
traterrestial, they call it, that
came down to earth in a ship
and — and here it it.”
Sam was puzzled. “I can
see it.”
“Right. And you and I —
the four of us — are the only
ones on earth who know
about it.”
“Joany doesn’t,” Johnny
said. “I don’t think she saw
it when we hit it, and after I
looked I wouldn’t let her go
near the front end. I was
afraid it would make her
sick.”
Lee Hayden’s eyes glowed.
“Good. Smart boy! Then
there’s just the three of us
who know.”
Sam Carter frowned at his
friend. “What are you driv-
ing at, Lee?”
“Just this — there’s money
67
THE COSMIC FRAME
in this thing, Sam! Loads of
money! If it’s handled right.
But we can’t go off half-
cocked.”
“I’m afraid I don’t get
you—”
“Use your head! If we call
the sheriff and everybody
finds out, then we’ve lost it.
There’ll be photographers
and reporters and the knowl-
edge will be public property.”
“You mean keep it quiet?”
Johnny asked. “Unless we
bury it somewhere and forget
about it, the public’s bound to
find out.”
“Of course — ^we want them
to. But in the right way. Not
until we’ve thought it over
and figured the best way to
exploit it. Get what I mean?
How would a showman han-
dle this? How would Barnum
have done it? Call in the
police and give it to the public
in exchange for a lot of pub-
licity and no money? Use
your heads — both of you!”
Sam said, “No, Lee! We’ve
got no right! This is serious.
This may be an invasion of
some kind. We’ve got to be
public-spirited and the hell
with the money.”
Johnny said, “If we knew
Russia was going to attack us
tomorrow would we have any
right to sell the information
to Washington?”
“The boy’s right, Lee. We
can’t fool around with a thing
as big as this.”
“The hell we can’t. This is
no invasion and you both
know it. It’s a chance to make
more money than any of us
ever saw.”
“It’s not right, Lee.”
“Why not? We aren’t going
to withhold anything. I say,
just take it easy and don’t
rush into anything with our
mouths wide open and spout-
ing information. Twenty-four
hours is all we’ll need. I’ll go
to Sioux City and get the
thing lined up right. Get a
contract with the people who
know how to exploit a thing
like this if we can’t figure
out how to do it ourselves.”
“But in the meantime, what
if—?”
“Twenty-four hours won’t
make any difference, I tell
you! And in that length of
time we can arrange a setup
to make fortunes. Sam — don’t
you want the kids to start out
life with a real bankroll? Do
you want them to struggle
along the way you and I had
to ? In one day, we can set
them up for life — and our-
selves too — and without hurt-
ing a soul. It’s your obliga-
tion, Sam. Can’t you see it?”
Lee Hayden argued on.
After a while, Johnny Carter
stopped voicing objections
68
AAAAZING STORIES
and watched his father, evi-
dently ready to go in either
direction Sam decided. The fa-
ther looked at the son and
misinterpreted his manner
and expression. He thought,
will the boy hold it against
me if I deprive him of this
opportunity? Do I have a
right to deprive him? Pos-
sibly Lee is right. Either way,
the country will know — the
government will be alerted.
He turned to Lee Hayden and
asked, “How do you think we
should go about it?”
Hayden’s eyes brightened.
“I knew you’d see it my way.
Now, I’ll tell you what we’ll
do. You and Johnny take the
thing home and hide it in
your basement. Yours is best
because there are only the
two of you. I couldn’t hide a
fly speck in my place that my
wife wouldn’t find.”
“What about Joan?” John-
ny asked. “She didn’t see this
thing but she knows some-
thing happened. She’ll ask
questions.”
“You leave my daughter to
me. Joan will do as I say —
for a while at least. Now, let’s
get going.”
Johnny went back to the
Hayden’s Chevrolet, turned it
laboriously around and headed
for home with Joan beside
him. Gripping the wheel, he
grimly staved off her ques-
tions, stopping them finally,
with, “Ask your father when
he gets home. He’ll tell you
about it.”
Joan Hayden crouched
miserably in her seat. A fine
end, this was, to a romantic
date.
After the Chevrolet disap-
peared, Lee Hayden said,
“Well, we might as well get it
over with. You take the arms
— I’ll grab the feet here, and
we’ll drop it in the back
seat.”
Sam Carter shuddered. “I’ll
open the trunk. I wouldn’t
want to drive back with this
thing in the seat behind me — •
even if it is dead.” He went
back and opened the trunk
and returned to lift his share
of the burden. There was a
loathsome, cold, damp soft-
ness to the skin that made
him shudder as he gp’ipped
the arms. There was little
weight, however, and they
soon had the monstrosity lock-
ed in the trunk.
As Sam drove, quiet and
sober, Lee Hayden sat staring
ahead, leaning tensely for-
ward, as though already
reaching for the money that
would soon be his. He said,
“Look, Sam — this thing is big
— real big.”
“You said that before.”
“But now I get to thinking
and I realize the potential.
THE COSMIC FRAME
69
The hell with stopping at
Sioux City. I’ll head straight
to Chicago. And we don’t have
to ring anyone else in on it.”
“Better be careful. We
don’t know' anything about
exploitation.”
“The newspaper men take
care of that after they see the
thing. They’ll give us all the
publicity we need. We’ll rent
a theater in Chicago and do
some advertising — ”
“They'll laugh at us. They’ll
think it’s a racket.”
“Of course they will — until
they see it. Until the news-
paper men see it. Then we’ll
have to rent the stadium.”
“I hope we don’t get into
any trouble with the govern-
ment over this thing.”
“How can we?” We aren’t
violating any law. And who
can blame us for trying to
make a dollar? When they ask
us about it we’ll tell them.”
“They’ll nail us for not re-
porting an accident,” Sam
said, smiling weakly.
Lee Hayden laughed and
slapped his friend on the
shoulder. “Good man! I knew
you’d be smart and see it my
way. What right have w'e got
to turn down money?”
Johnny was home and wait-
ing when they got there. Sam
drove straight into the ga-
rage. Johnny said, “I was try-
ing to figure what we’d do
with the thing. Dad, so I emp-
tied the deep freeze in the
basement. I put everything I
could into the refrigerator in
the kitchen and just left the
rest of the stuff out.”
“Good boy,” Lee said heart-
ily. “That’s using your head.
What’s a little spoiled food
when we’re on the cash end
of a deal like this?”
They carried the feather-
light, green body to the base-
ment under cover of the dark-
ness and laid it to rest in the
freezer. Then they went up
into the kitchen where Sam
made coffee and they sat
planning their strategy.
“Don’t think we ought to
rush into this thing,” Lee
Hayden said. “We’ve got to
be kind of careful.”
This surprised Sam Carter.
“How come? You were in
such an all-fired hurry — ”
“But there’s angles. It’s
practically morning, and if I
go kiting off to Chicago after
being out all night, the wife’s
going to start wondering.
There’ll be rumors all over
town. I’ve got to talk to that
girl of mine, too. Keep her
quiet until we get this thing
rolling.”
Lee Hayden had changed.
With something to get his
teeth into, he’d assumed lead-
ership in an impressive man-
70
AAMZING STORIES
ner, Sam said, “All right.
Whatever you say, but I’m
still a little nervous about — ’’
“Now take it easy! I tell
you everything’s going to be
all right. You two get some
sleep and I’ll give you a ring.’’
Sam Carter went to bed,
but sleep would not come. He
lay staring at the ceiling,
thinking of the horror that
rested in the deep freeze in
the basement. The fact that
the thing was dead brought
little comfort. He had been
lying wide-eyed for perhaps
an hour, when he heard the
noise. He stiffened, strained
his ears. The sound came
again. No doubt now. From
the basement. He got up and
clawed for the lamp at his
beside when the door opened.
The light snapped on to reveal
Johnny’s pale, frightened
face.
They stared at each other
for a long moment. Then
Johnny whispered. “Did you
hear it. Dad? From down-
stairs. It — ’’
“Lee, I’ll bet. He couldn’t
sleep and came back for an-
other look. Let’s go see.’’
“He wouldn’t do that. You
know what I think? It wasn’t
dead ! The thing was still alive
and now it’s come to and it’s
prowling the basement. What
are we going to do. Dad? We
don’t know anything about it.
Maybe it’s dangerous — dead-
ly—”
“Now don’t get excited. I’m
sure it’s Lee.” Sam picked up
the phone and dialed. They
waited tensely as another of
the rattling sounds came from
the basement. Then Lee Hay-
den’s voice. “Hello.”
“Lee — Lee, for God’s sake.
Get over here! There’s trou-
ble. The thing’s come alive.”
Lee Hayden didn’t even
bother to answer. Sam heard
the phone slammed down. He
pulled on his pants and had
just finished with his shoes
when the front gate slammed
and there were running foot-
steps on the walk. They met
Lee as he came in the front
door. “What’s wrong?” he
snapped. “What’s happened?”
“There’s someone down
there,” Johnny said. “We
thought maybe it was you — ”
“What would I be doing
down there? Why didn’t you
go find out?”
“Then maybe — maybe the
thing came alive.”
“And you didn’t check? Do
you realize what it would cost
us if it got away?”
“But it may be dangerous.”
“Nonsense, but if it did
come to, it’s ten times more
valuable.” Lee was already at
the basement door. He went
fearlessly down the steps,
Sam and Johnny Carter fol-
THE COSMIC FRAME
71
lowing behind with more
caution.
At the foot of the stairs,
Lee stopped dead. He pointed.
The freezer cover was lifted
back. Lee rushed across and
looked in. “It’s empty,’’ he
moaned. “It got away.’’
He turned toward the open
door leading into the back-
yard. “Come on — we’ve got to
catch it — got to get it back!”
He dived out into the dark-
ness. Sam, following, snatched
a flashlight off its hook by
the door.
In the yard, he bumped
hard into Lee Hayden who
had stopped suddenly. “The
garage,” Lee whispered
hoarsely. “The side door. It’s
open !”
Sam flashed the light and
the three of them walked
softly forward. “Maybe some-
body’s just trying to steal it,”
Johnny whispered
Then Sam snapped on the
garage light and no one did
any more talking.
There were six of the things
present. Two of them were
carrying the body from the
freezer. The other four car-
ried peculiar tubes in their
hands, somewhat smaller than
Sam’s flashlight. And if the
creatures were repulsive when
dead, they were bone-chilling
when alive and functioning.
Their cold, lidless eyes bored
into the three men and Sam
muttered, “We’re done for!”
The creatures regarded
them with no fear whatever.
There appeared to be con-
tempt in the leering faces,
and the tone of the odd, bird-
like chirping with which
they apparently communicat-
ed with each other, height-
ened Sam’s feeling that they
were voicing this same con-
tempt. But something told
him they were deadly. Sam
breathed, “Don’t move! For
God’s sake, stand where you
are! Don’t antagonize them!”
He had the same feeling he’d
have had at facing a den of
rattle-snakes ; the feeling that
one false move would bring
out striking fangs.
The creatures seemed to
discuss the three among
themselves, and Sam was sure
the weird squeakings that
punctuated the chirpings was
their form of laughter. But
they made no move to kill,
and Sam began to hope they
were harmless.
Then he was speedily dis-
abused of the idea. In a con-
certed move, they turned
their small tubes on the front
of the Packard. There was no
sound, no heat as from a high
frequency ray, only the soft
sound of metal being bent
and twisted by a hand gloved
72
AMAZING STORIES
in velvet. And the three men
stared as the front end of the
Packard twisted and writhed
itself into the same disorder
that would have resulted from
smashing headlong into a
brick wall. Then the truth
dawned on Sam — or what ap-
peared to be the truth. “They
aren’t mad at us. They think
the Packard did it; they’re
punishing the car for killing
their comrade. Don’t you get
it?’’
The creature paid no at-
tention to the words. That
emboldened Lee. He said “I
think you’re right. It’s in-
credible ! How can they be
smart enough to invent and
use space ships, and yet not
know the car isn’t responsible
for the killing?”
“I don’t know. Shall we
back out of here? Make a
break for it?”
“I think we’d better stay
just as we are,” Lee said
promptly.
This last proved good ad-
vice because, after demolish-
ing the front end of the car
to their satisfaction, the
creatures squealed and chirp-
ed for a while, evidently voic-
ing their satisfaction, and
then trooped out into the
darkness. As they moved
past, each of them leered at
the frozen three, squeaked a
nerve-wracking farewell, and
the troop was gone, carrying
its dead with it.
An explosive sigh from Lee
Hayden broke the silence.
'T’ve got a hunch we were
damn lucky,” he said. “Damn
lucky to still be alive.”
“How do you think they
found the house?” Johhny
asked.
Sam said, “I don’t know
and I don’t care. I’m just
glad they're gone.”
“We’ve got to do something
about this,” Lee Hayden said
with virtuous indignation.
“Alert the police. The village
— the whole nation may be in
danger. It’s up to us to do
something about it!”
Sam didn’t bother to call
Lee’s attention to his sudden
revez’sal. It didn’t seem im-
portant now. The only impor-
tant thing was to spread the
word.
They left the garage and
headed for the house. But,
halfway up the walk, the
sound of an approaching car
stopped them. The car pulled
up in front of the house and
two uniformed men got out.
“It’s the State Troopers,”
Johnny shouted. They must
have got wind of it already!”
The Troopers approached
swiftly. Lee began, “Officers
— ” but one of them cut him
off.
THE COSMIC FRAME
73
“We’re looking for a Mr.
Sam Carter. We got this ad-
dress and — ’’
“I’m Mr. Carter,’’ Sam said.
“There’s something- — ’’
“I’ll do the talking. You
have a son?’’
“Of course. This is my son
— John Carter — .’’
“You have a Packard road-
ster?’’
“Yes.”
“Was your son driving it on
Garner Road last night? Near
the farm of Frank Williams?’’
“Why, yes. He took his girl
to a dance at Storm Lake
and — ’’
“We know all about that.
How do you suppose we trac-
ed you down?’’
“But why—?’’
The Trooper scowled. “Did
you think the body would not
be found?”
“But you couldn’t have —
what body — ?”
The second trooper snorted
in disgust. “Frank William’s
body. Where a car smashed
him into a tree and killed him.
From what we can find out,
no one used that road last
night except your son.”
Johnny stepped forward.
“You mean Frank Williams
was found killed on the
road?”
“That’s right. Now we may
be wrong of course. But the
car that hit him will be pretty
well smashed up. If you’d let
us take a thoi'ough look at
your car — ”
Sam Carter said, “But this
is absurd, officer. There was
— there was—”
“Look, all we have to do is
check your car. If it’s not
damaged — ”
It dawned on Sam, now,
what the green intruders had
been up to — what they’d ac-
complished. They’d killed
Williams — set the scene — ar-
ranged the colossal frameup.
He looked at Lee Hayden
and said, “We thought they
were mad at the car! We
thought — .”
The trooper said, “What
are you talking about, mis-
ter?”
“Well, there was this little
green man from Mars or
somewhere, and Johnny hit
him when — ” Sam stopped
talking when he saw the look
on the trooper’s face. Then
he knew how foolish it would
sound — how utterly unbeliev-
able. He looked back at Lee
Hayden and began to laugh.
But there was no mirth in the
sound. Only fear — and hope-
lessness.
THE END
74
AAMZING STORIES
T hose of you who are familiar with fanzines will have to
bear with me w'hile I devote some space in this initial
column to an explanation of the phenomenon.
Fanzines are, as their name implies, magazines put out by
fans. Such professional publications as Amazing and Fantastic
are known as “prozines”. The fanzine is addressed to the in-
veterate s-f fan, and the circulation of each is somewhere in
the hundreds. Many are allied in the Fantasy Amateur Press
Association (FAPA), through which they distribute.
Over the years, they have developed a special argot: “ish”
for “issue”; “illo” for “illustration”; “faned” (rhymes with
“Sian head”) for “fan editor”, to give a few examples. Most
fanzines are mimeographed by their editor-publishers with
care, patience, considerable effort, and pain to the pocketbook.
Almost all who write for the fanzines hope one day to become
a prozine writer.
Fanzines are not an exclusively American phenomenon, al-
though, like modern science fiction, they started here. Excel-
lent fanzines are published in Canada, Northern Ireland, Eng-
land, and Australia.
Some fanzines are models of skill and taste; their editors
are interested in furthering science fiction, and perform a
notable service in the field. Others develop little cliques which
wrangle among themselves, pursue limited aims, and refer to
such obscure incidents that, to the objective reader, they re-
mind one of a more-or-less profane family quarrel.
Yet the fanzine is an illustration of what has amazed the
75
publishing trade: the incredible loyalty and devotion of a
hard-core group of fans who buy, sell, collect, write, and
talk about their favorite science fiction. We of the prozines
owe them thanks — wherefore this column. And now, to
work :
GRUE. Dean A. Grennell, U02 Maple Avenue, Fond Du Lac, Wis.
Illustrated. Issued quarterly. Issue ^22. Priced at Va cent
per page to the nearest nickel. Price of this issue, 25^.
The ubiquitous Mr. Grennell, who appears as a contributor
in many of the other fanzines, sets a standard with his own.
An excellent, legible offset job, this fanzine takes its contribu-
tion to science fiction seriously, but with a twinkle in its eye.
In this issue, A. Vincent (or Vine) Clarke reports the activi-
ties of a typical fan in a satire reprinted from the Manchester
(England) Convention program — a neat bit of work, followed
by Gregg Calkins’ American counterpart. There is an enjoy-
able page of “Gnurrsery Rhymes” devoted to limericks, and
a report on the San Francisco Convention by Evelyn Paige
Gold. The editor’s column is a collection of random thoughts
by a keen and offbeat mind. Many pages of letters, some of
which may interest you, and a report from Toronto by Howard
Lyons. A page of cartoons and illustrations throughout the
fanzine give gaiety to its contents. 52 pages.
* * *
FANTASY-TIMES. Fandom House. P.O. Box ^2331, Paterson 23,
N. J. Issued every fortnight. Vol. 9 — ^209 10^ per copy,
$2 per year.
This is the world’s oldest science fiction newspaper, and is
characterized by factual reports on events in the field. In this
issue, the editors, James V. Taurasi and Ray Van Houten,
list the magazines and books put out during the first half of
October, and Harry Altshuler’s column retails some news
about promags, books, and authors. Lead story, by Jim Har-
mon, gives details about a proposed s-f magazine, “X Science
Fiction”, due early in ’55 (84 pp., 15^). A column of Fantasy
Forecasts lists the contents of the next issue of F&SF, and the
“Letters to the Editor” column contains a biting evaluation
76
AMAZING STORIES
of Sam Moskowitz by FANTASY-TIMES’ reviewer, William
Blackbeard. A page of advertisements winds up this factual,
informative 6-page fanzine.
* * *
SKYHOOK. Redd Boggs, 2215 Benjamin Street, N.E., Minneap~
olis 18, Minn. Issued quarterly. Issue *22. 15^ per copy.
In its seventh year of publication, SKYHOOK is highly re-
garded by fans. The editor-publisher. Redd Boggs, proudly
proclaims himself an individualist, and proves it. His subjects
range from a political allegory to the eclipse of the sun visible
in Minneapolis on June 30th. A six-page department of book
reviews by Damon Knight reveals the talent of a bright and
sensitive critic. Dean Grennell writes Part H of his discussion
of F&SF, its editors (this was before Mr. McComas’ resigna-
tion was announced) , and a personal listing of the best stories
published in the promag. A department giving the editor’s
reaction to eleven fanzines and a letter department complete
this excellent 22-page effort.
» *
LE ZOMBIE. Boh Tucker, Box 702, Bloomington, III. Issued irreg^
ularly. Issue *64-. 25^. but no advance subscriptions taken.
Sent as long as the supply (225 plus) lasts. ■
An excellent offset job with striking, if gruesome, cover,
this fanzine is edited and published by a well-known profes-
sional writer. Written with tongue-in-cheek, it covers imagin-
ary reports from the Hollywood flackery by Gray Barker, a
New Yorker-type page of quotes from the June, 1953 issue of
Galaxy which shows the magazine in a nude light, and a report
of a trip taken by the two Bloomington Bobs, Bloch and
Tucker. Dean Grennell (how that man gets around!) has
written a history of LE ZOMBIE, and there is a duplication
of Mr. Tucker’s column, “The Big Bloodshot Eye’’ which also
appears in GRUE. A lengthy but light report on the San
Francisco Convention by Bob Bloch, a witty discussion of the
difficulties encountered in publishing fanzines in the United
Kingdom by Walt Willis, and a page of letters wind up this
38-page job.
THE REVOLVING FAN
77
PEON : Charles Lee Riddle, 108 Dunham Street, Norwich, Conn.
Issued irregularly, but approximately quarterly. Vol. 6 —
Number 3, Nov. ’51. 10^ per issue; 12/$1.
One of the best buys in the field, this 40-page fanzine is
published by a fan who spends 5^ merely to mail it to you.
Lead-off is a story, sensitive but somewhat confusing, by Joe
L. Hensley, entitled “Second Story”. The usual news of fan-
dom ; a not-so-usual column of book reviews by Dave Harmon.
Harry Harrison writes on “The Death of Science Fiction” ;
Jim Harmon continues his publicity for “X Science Fiction” ;
and the weird fringes of published s-f are explored by T. E.
Watkins. Dick Clarkson covers fanzines and prozines, and
Isaac Asimov defends himself against the critics, revealing
an unwarranted supersensitivity. Reviews of eleven fanzines
and notes by the editor complete this large, interesting, and
literate fanzine, one of the oldest in the field.
^
ZIP. Ted E. White, lOH N. Tuckahoe St., Falls Church, Va.
Approx, every second month. Issue ^6. 10^ per issue; 3/25t;;
7/50i.
While this three-color mimeo job is distinguished by many
illustrations, its blurred mimeographing makes it difficult to
read. It contains stories by Richard Lederer and Lawrence
Stark, a satire by Donald 0. Cantin, news and views by the
editor, an article on s-f collecting by Don Wegars, a poor col-
umn of book reviews by Jacob Edwards, and letters from
various fans. White is artist as well as editor, and is aided
by Fred von Bernewitz and Reeves. This fanzine has not yet
hit its stride, 30 pages.
♦ * «
OOPSLA! Gregg Calkins, 2817 Eleventh Street, Santa Monica,
Calif. Issued approx, every second month. Issue #44. Sept.
’5U. 15i.
OOPSLA! is printed on colored paper and, like PEON, is
published by a serviceman. Dean Grennell (how does he do
it?) is represented by an article on s-f authors’ pseudonyms;
78
AAAAZING STORIES
Vernon L. McCain gives us his thoughts on fans, fandom, and
science fiction; Walt Willis of Belfast reports his impressions
of the U.S. in typically witty fashion ; and Bob Bloch evaluates
his good friend, townsman, and fellow writer. Bob Tucker, in
an understandably biased manner. The editor writes the book
reviews, edits the letters, and criticizes twelve fanzines. An
interesting and light-spirited issue of 26 unnumbered pages.
He 4c «
CANADIAN FANDOM. Gerald A. Steward, 166 McRoberts Ave.,
Toronto 10, Ont., Canada. Issued quarterly. Issue *22,
Sept. ’5U. 15^; U/60^ \ 8/$l U.S.
This is generally conceded to be the best of the Canadian
fanzines and shows, in illustrations and mimeo, much care and
effort. Contents include Bill Stavdal’s defense of “MAD”, an
unique comic book ; a report, by Don Ford, of the Indian Lake
Convention ; news of fandom by Howard Lyons ; a column of
record reviews (not so surprising — s-f fans are eclectic) ;
news of the prozines by S.H.M. ; a poor story by Leslie A.
Crouch; and the usual column of fan letters, followed by a
fan profile. Not up to the best of the U.S. fanzines, but a
worthwhile effort nevertheless. 26 pages.
He He 4e
HYPHEN. Walter A. Willis, 170 Upper Newtownards Road,
Belfast, Northern Ireland. Issued irregularly. Issue *10,
Sept. ’51. Two issues for 1/6 U.K. or 25( U.S.; or two issues
will be exchanged for two recent American prozines or
books. Illustrated.
Walt Willis, who appears as a contributor in many Ameri-
can fanzines, is famed in the field for his wit, his skewed
sense of humor, and his energy. In this issue, his madness is
aided and abetted by two other Belfasters, James White and
Bob Shaw, and by two Englishmen, Chuck Harris and Vine
Clarke. Lead-off is a hilarious article by Bill Temple on the
vicissitudes experienced by a British s-f fan, followed by
articles written by J. Stuart Mackenzie and Dave Mcllwain, a
story by Bob Shaw, and pages of fan letters. Completely
whacky, but with underlying good sense and energy, its humor
THE REVOLVING FAN
79
gets its point across through poker-faced understatement and/
or a sense of the ridiculous. I enjoyed it immensely. So should
you. 34 pages.
* * *
Space and time are running ceived, with a promise to at-
out, so I shall briefly review tempt a longer evaluation in
the remaining fanzines re- the future :
EPITOME. Mike May, 94^8 Hobart St., Dallas, Texas. Monthly.
Issue #2. 10<ji.
One of the newest of the fanzines, published by a youngster
who makes up in zest what he lacks in attitude. A lengthy,
overwritten report on the San Francisco Convention; a poor
story by .Don Donnell; letters. 21 pages.
SPACESHIP. Bob Silverberg, 760 Montgomery St., Brooklyn 12,
N. Y. Quarterly. Issue *26. 10^.
An intelligent, thoughtful issue devoted for the most part to
reviews and discussion of the latest s-f in fanzines, prozines,
and books. 12 pages.
« « «
ETHEELINE. Amateur Fantasy Publications of Australia.
American representative: John Hitchcock, 15 Arbutus St.,
Baltimore 28, Md. Issued every fortnight. Issue *36. 13/$1.
United States.
A small fanzine devoted mainly to news of our friendly
Australian fan groups, and reviews of prozines and books.
22 pages.
* * «
PRE-APA. P. Howard Lyons, P.O. Box *561, Adelaide P.O.,
Toronto, Ont., Canada. Quarterly. Issue of Nov., ’54. Illus-
trated. 25^.
Profusely illustrated in excellent avant-garde style, the
80 AAAAZING STORIES
writing skips from pillar to post. News of fandom, Canada,
fanzines. I puzzled out the price as 25^, in which case this
isn’t worth it.
* sti 9ti
BARSOOMIAN. James V. Taurasi, 137-03 32nd Avenue, Flush-
ing 5J4-, N. Y. Issued 3 times per year. Vol. 2 — Number 2,
Jan.- April, ’5U. 25^.
Mr. Taurasi (see FANTASY-TIMES) here presents a spe-
cialized fanzine devoted to the interests of Edgar Rice Bur-
roughs fans. 22 pages.
« ♦
In closing, I would like to request all fanzine publishers to
send copies of their latest publications to Roger De Soto, care
of Amazing Stories. See you next issue. . . .
STATEMENT REQUIRED BY THE ACT OF AUGUST 24, 1912, AS AMENDED BY THE
ACTS OF MARCH 3, 1933, and JULY 2, 1946 (Title 39, United States Code, Section 233)
SHOWING THE OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT, AND CIRCULATION, OF AMAZING
STORIES, published bi-monthly at Chicago, 111., for October 1, 1954.
1. The names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing editor, and business man-
agers are :
Publisher Ziff-Davis Publi.shing Company, 64 E. Lake St., Chicago 1, III.
Editor Howard Browne, 366 Madison Ave., New York 17, N, Y.
Managing editor, None.
Business manager G. E. Carney, 36G Madison Ave., New York 17, N. Y.
2. The owner is: (If owned by a corporation, its name and address must be stated and
also immediately thereunder the names and ^dresses of stockholders owning or holding
1 percent or more of total amount of stock. If not owned by a corporation, the names and
addresses of the individual owners must be given. If owned by a partnership or other unin-
corporated firm, its name and address, as well as that of each individual member must be
given.)
Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 64 E. Lake St.. Chicago 1, 111.
Ziff-Davis, Inc., 366 Madison Ave., New York 17, N. Y.
Estate of William B. Ziff (Beneficial ownership in A. M. Ziff, W. B. Ziff, Jr., S.
Brady, P. R. Stafford, D. M. Ziff, L. M. Ziff) 366 Madison Ave., New York 17, N. Y.
A. M. Ziff, 366 Madison Ave.. New York 17, N. Y.
B. G. Davis, 366 Madison Ave., New York 17, N. Y.
S. Davis, 366 Madison Ave., Now York 17, N. Y.
3. The known bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders owning or holding
1 percent or more of total amount of bonds, moi'tgages, or other securities arc: Modern
Woodmen of America, Bock Island, Illinois.
4. Paragraphs 2 and 3 include, in cases where the stockholder or security holder appears
upon the books of the company as trustee or in any other fiduciai’y relation, the name of the
person or corporation for whom such trustee is acting ; also the statements in the two para-
graph show the affiant’s full knowledge and belief as to the circumstances and conditions
under which stockholders and security holders who do not appear upon the books of the com-
pany as trustees, hold stock and securities in a capacity other than that of a bona fide owner.
6. The average number of copies of each issue of this publication sold or distributed,
through the mails or otherwise, to paid subscribers during the 12 months preceding the date
shown atove was: (This information is required from daily, weekly, semiweekly, and tri-
weekly newspapers only.)
G. E. CARNEY,
(Signature, Business Manager)
[seal] ,
Sworn to and subscribed before me this 24th day of September, 1954.
HERSHEL B. SARBIN, Notary Public.
(My commission expires March 80, 1956.)
81
THE REVOLVING FAN
HOW THE LAND LIES!
By CHARLES FELSTEAD
“An unexplored planet’’ Bill said, "is the same as
a mysterious package. It can hold a treasure or a
ticking bomb.’’ And then he broke the string, . . .
K arl finished spraying the
neoplast dome of the ig-
loo and switched off the com-
pressor.
“That does it, Bill,” he
panted, the thin, sharp air of
the unfamiliar planet tingling
his lungs. "There’s our home
for the next few months.”
Bill opened a valve ; and the
plastic form within the dome
sighed and collapsed. He
wrestled it into a pile that
glowed warmly in the red
light of the twin suns shin-
ing through the milky wall.
Then he returned outside,
shifted the heavy blaster to a
more comfortable position on
his hip, and stared eagerly to-
ward the black hills.
“Bet we’ll be lucky this
time, Karl,” he said. “It ain’t
everyday we find an undis-
covered planet. I’m going for
a walk to get an idea how the
land lies.”
As Bill strolled away across
the level valley toward the
hills, Karl stood watching,
and slowly his eyes widened ;
for Bill went on talking and
turning his head occasionally,
seemingly in animated con-
versation with someone who
walked beside him. Then his
feet left the ground and he
started walking upward, as if
he were climbing a transpar-
ent slope of glass ; and all the
while he continued gesturing
and conversing with an invis-
ible companion.
Karl blinked and rubbed a
hand across his eyes. When he
looked again. Bill was high
above the grassy valley and
still climbing the impossible
slope. Karl closed his sagging
jaw and watched dumbly un-
til Bill had dwindled against
the greenish sky and disap-
peared.
“Hello,” a musical voice
greeted ; and he whirled
around, startled.
83
standing beside him was a
girl like an angel. She was
everything he had dreamed
about and wanted during all
the endless . lonely nights in
spaceships and on unfriendly
worlds.
Hair swept to her shoulders
in a red-gold cascade of sheer
beauty. Wide-spaced green
eyes smiled at him above a
warm and generous mouth;
and her lips curled up at the
corners, as though she under-
stood his longing and were
laughing gently at him.
Karl let out his breath, and
he realized he had been hold-
ing it a long time. He thought
of Bill walking away up the
invisible slope that did not
exist; but his mind became,
hazy and he could not remem-
ber Bill. He knew then that
there was no Bill, that Bill
had never existed, and that
he had been with this girl all
the time. They had come here
together in the ship ; they had
been together a long time.
“Shall we leave now, Karl?”
Irene asked, and put her
warm hand in his. She led
him to the ship and they
climbed to the control room.
Karl switched on the auto-
matic pilot ; and they lay
down side by side in the deep
cushions of the acceleration
couches. The clang of the clos-
ing airlock doors rang hol-
lowly through the ship; the
take-off warning sounded its
strident clangor. Acceleration
smashed them into the cush-
ions with crushing pressure.
When the rockets had ceased
their thunder and the ship
was in free-fall, Karl and
Irene propelled their weight-
less bodies to a port. He held
her in the curve of an arm,
tenderly aware of the soft
sweetness of her body; and
they gazed out at the clouds
of stars that painted cold fire
across the blackness of space.
Karl turned his head to
speak to the girl, and she was
not there.
He walked in dull confusion
across the control room,
through the open airlock, and
climbed down the ladder to
the ground.
He was standing slumped
against the ship when Bill
came running up, shouting
and waving his arms.
Bill grabbed him and jerk-
ed him around in a wild dance,
yelling like an Indian, until
Karl finally dragged him to a
halt.
“Cut it out!” Karl growled.
“I don’t—”
“We hit it, son, we hit it!”
Bill yelled, his eyes shining
and his broad seamed face
red with exertion. “The rich-
est radioactive ore these old
eyes ever did see! Acres and
84
AMAZING STORIES
acres of it right on the sur-
face!”
Karl stared listlessly at
Bill; but slowly his eyes
brightened with enthusiasm.
“Oh, man!” he shouted. “Oh,
man!” He capered in a dance
of his own. “Where’d you find
it?”
“Why did you turn back?”
Bill asked. “It wasn’t more’n
half a mile farther. All spread
out there, black and beauti-
ful!”
“Me . , . turn back?” Karl
sobered, remembering Bill
walking up into the air on
that impossible slope,- busily
talking to an invisible com-
panion. He clutched Bill’s
arm. “Look, you walked off
alone, and you — ”
“Are you nuts? We walked
up the slope to the hills, and
all the way we were making
plans for prospecting this
planet. Then you mumbled
something about going back
to check the ship and you
went off before I could say
anything.”
Karl drew Bill to a seat on
empty packing cases and told
him how he had walked away
alone, climbing into the air,
and about the girl and the
space flight that had not been
a flight at all.
Bill shook his head slowly.
“You’re nuts, son. You better
take a couple days rest while
I stake out the claim.”
Karl gazed thoughtfully at
the ground. Finally he said,
“You went off empty-handed.
Bill. Where did you get the
geiger counter?”
“Why . . .” There was a
long pause. “That’s funny; I
didn’t have a geiger. Then
how’d I know the ore was
radioactive? And now I can’t
seem to remember just where
it was . . . it’s all getting
hazy. . .
Karl shivered nervously.
“I’m scared, Bill. Something’s
wrong. Let’s pack up and get
out of here before. . . . Well, I
don’t know what; but I’m
scared.”
“And leave the mine?” Bill
snorted. “All that wealth ? I’ve
never known you to go soft
before. You must be off your
feed.”
“Yeah. Could be. But if
things keep acting queer, will
you promise you’ll go?”
“Sure, sure.” Bill rose de-
cisively. “What we need is
sleep. Come on, Karl. We’ll be
okay in the morning.”
They unpacked cots in
moody preoccupation, made
up their beds in the igloo, and
turned in without another
word. But Karl lay worrying
a long time.
The odor of coffee and fry-
ing bacon dragged him out of
HOW THE LAND LIES
85
deep sleep. Red sunlight shin-
ing from low down the trans-
lucent wall told that it was
not long after dawn. The
other bed. was empty and
rumpled. He dressed rapidly
and went into the light, yawn-
ing and rubbing his eyes.
Karl lowered his hands and
stared. The angel with the
red-gold hair was holding up
a steaming coffee pot.
“Come and get it,” she call-
ed cheerily.
Karl thought of Bill and
the empty cot. He laughed up-
roariously, knowing that Bill
had been only a dream, and
that the girl had been sleep-
ing beside him as she always
did.
They ate a big breakfast,
sitting cozily on a tree-fern
log; and he thought that he
had never tasted such won-
derful food. Irene chatted and
laughed; and Karl, glowing
with happiness, adored her
with his eyes. They sat a long
time, talking the nonsense of
young people in love.
Finally, she pointed to the
city that rose nearby in spires
and domes, radiant in shining
splendor, and told him that it
had been fun camping out but
they should go home now.
They sauntered through the
lovely city ; and everywhere
people hailed them cheerily
and stopped to gossip. They
visited theaters, museums and
great public buildings; and
when the setting suns were
painting the domes and spires
with warm flame, they wan-
dered to a shady park and sat
on a bench. Irene snuggled
close and he could smell the
sweet perfume of her hair.
Such happiness swept over
him that it was pain, and he
closed his eyes. . . .
He was sitting on the tree-
fern log before the igloo and
Bill was running toward him
through the reddish haze of
sunset. One sun had retreated
behind the mountains; the
other sun was splintered on
their jagged edge.
“So you didn’t believe me,
you withered old maverick!”
Bill cried. “Well, I went out
and found it again — and it’s
bigger and richer than I even
dreamed ! We’re millionaires
— we’re multi-multimillion-
aires!”
Karl looked at him dully.
He was tired and very hun-
gry, and sick with fear.
Bill danced around him in a
circle, whooping and pranc-
ing.
“I surveyed the claim and
staked it,” he chortled. “Now
all we got to do is get a sam-
ple of ore and return to base.”
He stopped gyrating and look-
ed at his empty hands stu-
86
AMAZING STORIES
pidly. “Now, why didn't I
think to bring a sample with
me?”
“You hate women, don’t
you?” Karl asked.
“Why — yeah. But I don’t
see what that — ”
“Your wife did a dirty
trick on you, and all you want
is to get rich so you can go
back and show her what a fool
she was.”
Bill scowled. “Sure. You
know the story as well as I do.
My wife got tired of being
tied to a poor space bum who
was always going to strike it
rich the next trip. When I
was out on the Procyon
worlds, and couldn’t do noth-
ing about it, she divorced
me.”
“And married a stupid
planetlubber who was loaded
with dough,” Karl finished.
“What’s that got to do with
our mine?” Bill stared at him
with slow comprehension.
“Oh, I get it. You’re think-
ing the way I been thinking
all day — how I’m going to
walk up to her and say, I’m
rich. I’m richer than Croesus,
I can buy your husband a
thousand times over.” He
curled his hands into big fists
and his face was ugly.
“No,” Karl said slowly, “I
wasn’t thinking about that.
All I ever wanted or dreamed
about was a girl — a certain
girl — and I only wanted mon-
ey so I could buy the time to
search for her.”
“What in Jupiter are you
talking about?”
“Please, Bill; let’s get out
of here ! I’m scared stiff, I tell
you. If we stay, I. know we’ll
becomes loonies, or something
awful will happen.”
“Look, son. I’m losing pa-
tience with you. After all
these years, we hit it ; and you
want to run away ! I don’t see
nothing to be scared of; and
I ain’t going!”
“Please, Bill, let’s make a
deal. I’ll go with you to the
mine tomorrow. If there’s no
mine, will you leave?”
“Sure, sure.” Bill grinned
patiently. “But there is a
mine ; and you’re the one
that’s looney.”
Karl looked at him sourly.
“Let’s get something to edt.
I don’t think I’ve had any
food since — since yesterday.”
Bill prattled of the mine
through dinner and until they
went to bed; but Karl hump-
ed on the log, staring silently
into the fire with haunted
eyes.
When the warm sunlight
woke him, Karl glanced ner-
vously at the other cot; but
Bill was sprawled on it, snor-
ing contentedly. Karl ran out-
side, looked around eagerly.
HOW THE LAND LIES
87
Then he walked slowly to the
log and squatted on it, gazing
vacantly into space.
So it was a dream . . . but if
only he . could live in that
dream . . . forever. . . .
Karl’s shoulders shook ; but
he jerked his head defiantly
and rose to his feet, wiping
tears from cheeks that had
been withered and dried by
many years and the suns of
many worlds. He looked sadly
at his knarled old hands, turn-
ing them slowly to study the
callouses earned by endless la-
bor at unprofitable claims.
“Guess dreams is all I got
left,” he whispered.
He glanced wistfully down
the valley toward where his
lovely city of yesterday had
stood . . . and staggered to his
feet. He must have yelled, for
Bill came plunging out of the
igloo, waving a blaster. Karl
pointed a shaking arm at the
spires and domes that lifted
in glory from the broad val-
ley; and Bill halted, open
mouthed, the blaster slipping
from nerveless fingers.
Like one man, they ran to-
ward the shining magnificence
that beckoned with all its ar-
chitectural perfection.
As they trotted, gasping in
the thin air, the city rose
higher before them, its spires
reaching toward the green
sky; and soon they could see
brilliantly-costumed people
walking the streets.
But the city was farther
than it had seemed ; and their
trot fell to a walk. Then they
had to sit on a hummock and
rest before going on again.
And finally they were stag-
gering, tripping over the
roughness of the ground.
Then they were falling and
getting up, stumbling ahead
and falling again ; but the city
was no nearer. The suns were
directly overhead; and their
red heat soaked the men with
sweat.
Bill fell and lay prone, sob-
bing for breath. Karl squatted
beside him.
“ ’Tain’t no use. Bill,” he
said. “It’s just a mirage.” He
added wildly, "I can’t take
this no longer! We got to get
off this cursed planet!”
They looked up, and there
was no city.
It was sunset before they
reached camp. They wolfed
cold food from containers and
collapsed onto their cots.
Karl thought he had just
closed his eyes when the crash
of a blaster jerked him
awake. He grabbed the heavy
atomic-pellet gun from its
rack and dashed out into
night that was brightened by
many moons.
A colossal monster was
88
AMAZING STORIES
reared against the sky, tower-
ing over Bill and reaching for
him with taloned arms.
Bill screamed and fired a
bolt that splashed in a mush-
room of flame against the
monster’s belly. He turned
and ran ; and the creature
thundered after him, shaking
the ground with the drive of
its massive legs.
Karl darted forward, shoot-
ing at the head, hoping to hit
a vulnerable spot. A pellet ex-
ploded with a fierce glare and
the jar of concussion made
Karl’s teeth rattle; but the
colossus plunged on.
Karl raced across at an
angle and reached Bill’s side
just as the beast leaned over
him. They faced it desperate-
ly, triggering their weapons
in rapid fire.
Great arms scooped them
into a mighty hug.
Karl shrieked with the
agony of yard-long talons
knifing through his flesh, the
horrid mangling of his body
against the rock-hard chest.
Then death engulfed him in
merciful blackness.
They were climbing a steep
incline, and Bill was saying,
“ — hundreds of acres of the
stuff lying loose on the sur-
face, just waiting to be scrap-
ped into hoppers. Good old
pitchblende, son — juicy, deli-
cious uranium oxide. Nobody
never found a richer deposit !
And, partner, it’s right over
this ridge!”
Karl was still carrying the
heavy atomic gun. He swung
it around to a more comfort-
able position.
Bill halted, gaping in hor-
ror at the weapon that was
pointing at his middle.
“You dirty rat !” he scream-
ed. “Going to kill me so you
can keep all the money!”
He yanked out his blaster
and fired.
As his body dissolved in
flame, Karl writhed in tor-
ment ; and the torture knotted
his muscles. In the instant he
hung suspended before death,
his finger jerked spasmodical-
ly on the trigger and the
heavy gun jolted. The concus-
sion of the pellet exploding in
Bill’s body hurled him into
blackness.
The red suns were sliding
down the sky, painting the
world with rosy warmth. He
and Bill were preparing
lunch.
“Bill !” he said, and choked.
Bill was staring at him
with tormented eyes. “Karl,
boy, I thought I killed you!”
He sobbed and buried his face
in his hands.
“We’re leaving, Bill, as fast
as we can load our gear. And
I pray it’s soon enough!”
“Leaving? But the mine!”
HOW THE LAND LIES
89
“There’s no mine . . . and
no monster. Don’t you know
what’s happening?”
“No.” Bill shook his head
in confusion. “I don’t get it.”
“There’s an intelligence
here, Bill, that don’t want us
around to rob its planet. It
has been trying to scare us
away; but now it’s getting-
serious, and that gun fight
was our last warning. Next
time it will play for keeps;
and you and I will be ferti-
lizer for some nice little
flowers.” ■
Bill scratched his whisker-
ed jaw. “I just don’t get it.”
“All right, listen to this. It
got into our minds flrst with
dreams of the things we each
wanted most. Mine was a girl,
and you wanted wealth. That
was the easy way to get to us,
since those were the things
we wanted to dream. Then,
as it learned how, it was able
to bring in the monster. But
when it realized it couldn’t
scare us away, it practiced
having us kill each other.
That was the rehearsal of our
deaths. Now that it knows
how, next time it will make
us really shoot. Don’t you get
it?”
Bill sat quietly for a long
time, mediatively scuffing the
dust; then he heaved a trem-
ulous sigh. “So it was a vi-
sion, all those hundreds of
acres of untold wealth. So we
go on scrambling from world
to world, knocking our brains
out for the strike we’ll never
make. Guess my old lady was
right.” He rubbed the back of
a wrinkled hand across his
eyes, and rose to his feet.
“Come on,” he added. “Let’s
load her fast. I know down in
my bones that you’re talking
sense.”
Karl did not draw a full
breath until the shriek of at-
mosphere against the hull had
died away as they escaped in-
to the vacuum of space.
“Ready?” he mumbled; and
when Bill wiggled a finger
from deep in the cushions of
the take-off couch, he slowly
raised an arm made leaden
by acceleration and flicked
the hyperspatial-drive switch.
There was the sickening
wrench; then the tremendous
weight of acceleration fell
away, and the thunder of the
rockets snapped off, leaving
his ears singing loudly in the
utter quiet.
They unstrapped t h e m -
selves, ate a tasteless meal in
morose silence, then wander-
ed back to the control room.
Time passed slowly ; and Karl
retreated into his dream of
happiness, reliving again and
again the precious hours with
his girl of the red-gold hair.
It’s only the memory of a
HOW THE LAND LIES
dream, he reminded himself.
“It was awful real,” Bill
said abruptly.
“Huh?”
“I said it was awful real.
Why, I even imagined that I
took a sample of the ore and
put it in that drawer over
there. It was earlier in the
night the — the monster at-
tacked me.”
Bill went to the drawer,
pulled it open. “I’ll have to
look to prove it to myself.”
When Karl glanced up. Bill
was staring in' fx-ozen disbe-
lief at a black lump he held
in his hand. Karl scrambled
out of the room. He came
charging back with a geiger
counter. Even as he entered,
the clicking in the head-
phones became a staccato
storm.
“Richest radioactive ore of
all time,” he whispered. Real-
ization came slowly into his
face. His eyes burned with
misery. “And I didn’t plot our
course when we left. We’ve
gone perhaps a score of light
years ! but in what direction ?”
There was silence, except
for the clicking geiger.
Karl raised his eyes, but
Bill was not there.
He stared wildly about the
empty room; then ran blun-
dering and screaming through
the ship. . . .
He was alone, the end
91
The Siren from Cnossus
By BEDELL STUART
They don't come more gullible than Stan Purcell. He believed
anything— even that there existed a photograph of the fabled
Minotaur from ancient Crete. But when a girl who claimed
to be three thousand years old wanted to marry him
Look, just how naive can you expect a man to be?
\
D irector Hawley Hat- gist specializing in the Minoan
ton of the Museum of civilization at Cnossus, Crete,
Natural History banged his knew he couldn’t exactly put a
fist down in a very un-erudite Situation Wanted ad in the
fashion on the top of his desk newspaper and expect the
(Burma teakwood, circa 17th world to beat a path to his
Century). doorstep. “What for?” he
“Purcell,” he bellowed, asked, hoping his voice showed
“you’re fired.” the proper mixture of naivete
Stan Purcell, an archaeolo- and chagrin.
92
“For lying.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“Purcell,” Dr. Hawley Hat-
ton said coldly, “you wired us
from Cnossus. You wired us
again from Rome, enthusias-
tically. And again from Ber-
muda. What did you stop off
at Bermuda for, anyhow?”
“To soak up some sun.”
“But you just came from
the Mediterranean.”
“Where I was working.”
“That’s what you say.
Shall I show you your cable?”
“I know what it said.”
But Hatton reached into a
drawer of his desk and came
up with a sheet of crumpled
yellow paper. Stan read over
the director’s shoulder. It was
the first wire he had sent,
from Crete.
I’ve found the most
AMAZING DISCOVERY IN THE
HISTORY OF ARCHEOLOGY
SINCE SCHLIEMANN DISCOV-
ERED TROY STOP it’s A FULL
COLOR PICTURE OF THE MINO-
TAUR, THAT FABULOUS CRETAN
MONSTER, HALF MAN, HALF
BULL STOP it’s NOT A FRIEZE,
CHIEF STOP it’s A PHOTOGRAPH
EXCLAMATION POINT.
“That’s right,” Stan said, “a
life-size photograph, in color,
of the Minotaur and a beauti-
ful Cretan girl.”
“Where is it?”
“I sent it air express. You
know that.”
“I believed you, Purcell.
We called the press, the wire
services, the TV people. This
was going to be the most im-
portant thing that ever hap-
pened to the Museum of Nat-
ural History. So, what hap-
pened?”
“I don’t know,” Stan admit-
ted. “I just got off the plane
from Bermuda and received a
message to come right here.”
“You’re fired. When we
opened the air express pack-
age, we found nothing but an
empty frame.”
“What?” Stan gasped.
“I should have realized it
was a lie,” Hatton said bitter-
ly. “How could they have
made a photograph of the
Minotaur — assuming the Min-
otaur ever existed — over
three thousand years ago?”
“You never know what to
expect in Crete. They had
plumbing as good as our twen-
tieth century variety while the
rest of the world went on
using a nearby stream and a
lit-trench for another few
thousand years. Their women
wore flouncy skirts and plung-
ing neckline blouses with
puffed sleeves while the Egyp-
tians were walking around in
loin aprons, and five hundred
years before the Greeks in-
vented the toga. Why couldn’t
94
AMAZING STORIES
they have discovered photog-
raphy, too?”
“Where’s the pictui'e?”
Stan shrugged. “It must
have been stolen.”
“Stolen? There’s no cut-
throat competition in the mu-
seum business, Purcell. I say
you were lying to cover the
fact you were vacationing in
Crete. Or else this is the worst
practical joke ever perpetrat-
ed. You’re through here, Pur-
cell. If I were ten years
younger. I’d punch you in the
nose.”
When Dr. Hatton said noth-
ing more, a thoroughly be-
wildered Stan Purcell turned
around and left the museum
office.
“It’s me, Nancy,” Stan said
two hours later. “I’m back
from Crete.”
A slim, beautiful blonde
with a delicate, almost fragile
figure, Nancy Vernon looked
at Stan coldly. “Do you want
a medal or something? You’ve
made me a laughing stock
among all my friends. And
Dad won’t even speak to
you.”
“If it’s about the photo-
graph—”
“Certainly it's about the
photograph.” Nancy turned
away angrily and did some-
thing with her hands. When
she faced Stan again, she
THE SIREN FROM CNOSSUS
handed him a small engage-
ment ring with a modest, half-
carat stone. “This is about the
photograph, too,” she said.
“But—”
“You know Dad wanted you
to come into the construction
business with him. He offered
you a vice-presidency, after
we were married. ‘If a man
can tear down ancient cities,’
he said, ‘he can also build new
ones. There’s a place for you
in our organization, Stan. The
Vernon Construction Com-
pany opens its arms to you.’
But no. Oh, no. You had to go
galavanting off to Sicily — ”
“Crete.”
“To Crete. At least if you
had done something there.
You’re nothing but a big over-
grown practical joker with an
archaeologist’s pick and
shovel.”
“I really found that photo-
graph, Nancy.”
“Oh, sure. And it got up and
walked away. I was so proud
of you, Stan. I even made Dad
feel proud. All my friends
were there at the museum
when Dr. Hatton had the press
and the TV reporters on hand
for the great occasion.”
“You saw it?” Stan asked
eagerly. Later, the shock of
his broken engagement would
hit him. Right now he could
think of nothing but the an-
cient Cretan photograph he
95
had unearthed beneath the
ruins of the palace at Cnos-
sus.
“I saw an old-looking — and
empty= — picture frame. Time
Magazine gave it three lines,
calling it the biggest farce
since Cook claimed he discov-
ered the South Pole, or since
the Literary Digest said Lan-
don would win. All my friends
are laughing at me. Dad
doesn’t want me to speak to
you ever again, unless you
agree immediately to give up
this — this digging — business
of yours.”
“Then it’s not because the
picture disappeared. It’s be-
cause your father wants me to
go into construction with
him.”
“Yes,” Nancy said, reaching
out hopefully for the engage-
ment ring. “If it really was a
practical joke and you’re
ready to quit this strange pro-
fession of yours. Dad is
willing to have you as a son-
in-law. After you’re a vice-
president of Vernon Construc-
tion, I don’t care what my
friends think. Don’t you see,
Stan? Don’t you?”
Stan nodded. “I see, all
right,” he said bitterly. “You’d
never be happy, married to an
archaeologist. This business of
the photograph was just a pre-
text.”
“Stan, how can you say
that?”
“I didn’t say it. You did.”
“Stan, please. You don’t
understand.”
“I do understand. Unfor-
tunately. If the photograph
hadn’t disappeared, I’d have
been famous in my field. It
would have satisfied your
friends and maybe for a few
weeks they’d have offered
toasts to me all over the night
spots of New York. But it
wouldn’t have satisfied your
old man — ”
“Stan, don’t call Daddy
that awful name.”
“ — and it wouldn't have saU
isfied you, either.”
“But you’re all wrong!”
“Am I? I tell you what. I’m
going to find that picture.
Then we’ll see.” Stan did not
have the slightest idea of how
he would go about finding the
missing photograph of the
Minotaur and the beautiful
Cretan woman, the photo-
graph which could not possi-
bly exist because the shutter
of the unknown camera had
opened on it over three thou-
sand years ago, but the pho-
tograph which Stan had seen
with his own archeaology-
trained eyes and had recog-
nized, fantastically, as authen-
tic. At the museum he was
now persona non grata, so he
could expect no help there.
96
AMAZING STORIES
“Stan, Dad says this is your
last chance.”
“I’m sorry, Nancy. Maybe
it will work out for us and
maybe it won’t. But I’m going
to find that picture.”
The massive silhouette of
the museum was a dark fort-
ress crouching against the
starry night on Central Park
West. Stan’s pulses quickened
as he neared it. For others, the
museum with its musty, echo-
ing corridors was a sepulchre
for dead ages, for the accumu-
lated dust of centuries. But
for Stan it was a place alive
with wonderful memories, a
vault which did not resurrect
the memory of past ages but
rather maintained them as liv-
ing things.
And now, he was no longer
a part of this world in which
years, centuries and millenia
could be flipped through like
the pages of a daily calendar.
A burp rumbled ominously in
his throat and escaped. He
had spent the hours of twi-
light in a series of bars on
Fifty-second Street, fortify-
ing his courage with distilla-
tions from the French grape
vines, the Kentucky corn
fields, the Scotch barley
acreages.
There was a sleepy old
watchman named Sam Saw-
yer who guarded the museum
at night. There were three or
four other watchmen whose
names Stan did not know. And
there was the late show at the
adjacent planetarium to be
reckoned with. Stan munched
on a chlorophyl tablet and
hoped it would obscure the
odor of the various brews. The
late show at the planetarium
was an important feature of
his plan. For Sam Sawyer,
Stan knew, was passionately
interested in astronomy. He
often opened the door leading
from the planetarium to the
museum so he could watch
part of the sky show. With all
the other entrances locked,
this could be Stan’s means of
ingress to the museum.
Stan paid his admission fee
at the planetarium window
and walked inside. Several
people were gazing at the ex-
hibits in the rotunda and oth-
ers were making a circuit of
the planetarium corridor with
its meteorites, photographs
and scales telling you how
much you would weigh on the
various planets. Stan joined
them, walking by the picture
of Aphrodite springing from
the foam of the Agean Sea.
When he reached the entrance
to the museum, the door was
locked.
Stan sighed. Perhaps this
was old Sam Sawyer’s night
to catch up on his sleep. Stan
THE SIREN FROM CNOSSUS
97
lurked in the shadows near
the door and began to feel like
a fugitive. The odds were
against Sawyer coming, he
told himself. The old man
wouldn’t breech the museum
regulations every night. The
various distillations had forti-
fied Stan’s courage, all right
— but, he thought, they had
befogged his reason.
And then, all at once, the
door to the museum opened.
Stan flattened himself against
the wall, waiting while Sam
Sawyer’s grizzled head ap-
peared. Sawyer had a mouse-
eating smile on his face as he
walked out into the corridor
of the planetarium. The door
clicked shut softly behind him
as he made his way across the
floor toward the sky show
auditorium.
Walking toward the door,
Stan felt as if unknown eyes
were watching him. Was he
breaking and entering? No,
he decided, just entering — for
Sam Sawyer had unlatched
the door and left it unlatched
because it was supposed to re-
main locked at all times after
the museum closed and Saw-
yer probably did not have the
key.
Equipped with a three-bat-
tery flashlight, Stan took a
deep breath and entered the
deserted museum.
Beyond the Hall of Reptiles
on the fourth floor was the
new Minoan Room, devoted to
artifacts from the Cretan cul-
ture which, with its capital at
the island city of Cnossus, had
covered the Mediterranean
world and left the imprint of
its culture there almost a
thousand years before Hom-
er’s heroes had gone off to
sack Troy, almost two thou-
sand years before Caesar had
divided Gaul into four parts
and almost three thousand
years before Columbus had
discovered America.
It was here, Stan reasoned,
that Hawley Hatton had
planned to unveil the photo-
graph to the press. As he
reached the entrance to the
Minoan Room, though, Stan
received the first of many sur-
prises. A new unfinished door
of raw pine planking barred
his entrance to the room. A
sign stenciled on the door in
black paint said KEEP OUT
—THIS ROOM CLOSED TO
THE PUBLIC.
A small padlock which
might give people the impres-
sion that the sign meant what
it said but couldn’t be expect-
ed to withstand much of an
onslaught was in place at one
edge of the door. Stan turned
the flashlight over in his hand
and began to whack the pad-
lock with it. After a while, the
98
AAAAZING STORIES
metal staple which held the
lock in place came loose from
the soft, now splintered pine.
Stan looked furtively over
his shoulder, as if he expected
someone to be watching him.
He smiled triumphantly,
though, not because Hawley
Hatton’s door had failed to
keep him out but because the
director had bothered to put
up a door. It means, Stan
thought, that Hatton wasn’t
really sure if Stan had played
a monstrous practical joke,
that somewhere in Hatton’s
unimaginative mind there was
room for the thought that
Stan had brought the impos-
sible photograph back from
Cnossus and something equal-
ly imposible — the fact that it
had vanished — had happened.
Still smiling, Stan pushed
into the dark Minoan Room,
the flashlight’s beam probing
ahead of him through the
blackness. “Shut that damned
thing off!” a woman’s voice
cried. “Do you want the Mino-
taur to find me?”
In his haste to swing its
beam in a wide circle about
the large room, Stan almost
dropped the flashlight. Where
was the voice coming from?
It seemed to be close at hand
and certainly not mechanically
reproduced, but what were the
odds against finding a woman
THE SIREN FROM CNOSSUS
with a voice tangy and sweet
as ancient wine stored in
terra cotta jugs lurking in the
dark halls of an early Minoan
room at a museum?
“Where are you?” Stan
said.
His answer was in the form
of two slim bronzed hands
floating into the beam of the
flashlight, and a moment later
— but briefly — a face.
Stan dropped the flashlight.
He could make no mistake
about that face. He had seen
it only once before and had
marveled at its beauty. It was
the face of the girl being
chased by the Minotaur in an-
cient Crete.
“That’s better,” the girl
said in the darkness, speak-
ing perfect English. “That’s a
heck of a lot better.” Speak-
ing perfect American-style
English, Stan coi'rected him-
self.
“But I thought you were
part of a photograph!”
“Please ! Can’t you whisper ?
The Minotaur has been chas-
ing me motionlessly for over
three thousand years and now
that we both can move he
really wants to catch me.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll whisper. I
want to know how it is you
were a photograph once but
now — ”
“Photograph? I don’t even
know what that means. I was
99
mummified alive, if that’s
what you mean. I and the
Minotaur.”
“Mummified?”
“Sure. The Egyptians
copied it from us but weren’t
very good at it. They were
only able to mummify dead
people, and what’s so hot
about doing that?”
“Nothing’s so hot about it,
I guess.”
“0. K. You agree with me.
In that case — ”
“Exactly what do you mean
by mummified?”
“Frozen, I guess you’d say.
Two-dimensionalized with our
metabolism slowed almost to a
standstill.”
“But why?”
The voice like wine tinkled
with laughter. “Why did your
people bury a time capsule at
your Worlds Fair fifteen years
ago so future generations
could find it? Why do men
keep records of their times?
Why — but I don’t have to go
on.”
It was a joke, Stan decided.
Hatton, knowing he would
sneak into the museum, get-
ting back at him this way?
Nancy’s father, perhaps ? Stan
figured he’d better nip the
joke in the bud before its im-
plications drove him back to
Fifty-second Street and an-
other round of the bars there.
“If you’re an ancient Cretan
girl — ”
“A Minoan Princess, if you
please!”
“All right, a princess. If
you’re who you claim, how
come you speak such good
English? How come you can
speak English at all?”
“Are you kidding? Try be-
ing frozen in a picture for
over three thousand years,
with no new facts to stimulate
your memory. Then, all of a
sudden, you’re free again.
Your memory is so rested, it
remembers everything that
happens around it. I mean
everything. The words spoken
by people on the way over
here, the meaning of the
words by the actions and ges-
tures they made, more words
in the museum before the pic-
ture unfroze ... I probably
know English better than you
do.”
“Can you prove your iden-
tity?”
“Prove it? Do I have to?”
“I’m an archaeologist and I
saw you in the picture, but I
don’t believe you. Others
would believe you even less.”
“Believe me? Who cares if
they believe me or not? May-
be you don’t get it, friend, but
I’ve gone over three thousand
years without a good drink of
wine, three thousand years
without a roasted boar steak,
100
AMAZING STORIES
three thousand years without
exercise, three thousand years
without a man. Who cares if
they believe me or not?”
“But you . . . I . . . we . .
Abruptly, Stan stopped
talking. In the darkness,
smooth rounded arms enfold-
ed about his neck. A breath of
exotic perfume titilated his
nostrils. Lips warm and avid
pressed against his own.
There was a deep sigh, more
pressure, a delightful winey
taste. His pulses racing, Stan
responded, then withdrew in
the darkness.
“I see men still remember
how to kiss in the Twentieth
Century,” the voice said after
another lohg sigh.
“I — I didn’t know you Mi-
noans knew about kissing.”
“We had plumbing, didn’t
we?” She spoke as if that ex-
plained everything. “We knew
about kissing and all sorts of
delightful things. Here, I’ll
show you.”
“Wait a minute. Stop.” The
hands had touched him again.
“What about the Minotaur?”
“By the sun goddess, I for-
got!” the voice said, then
added : “He’s after me, you
know.”
“You already said that. Is
he really half man, half bull ?”
There was a tittering laugh
in the darkness. “I’m sur-
prised at you, Stan Purcell.
THE SIREN FROM CNOSSUS
That is your name, isn’t it? I
heard them all talking about
you. Of course he’s not half
man and half bull. The bull
part is just a mask he wears,
but I don’t like him.”
“You don’t like him?”
“Nope. He was a devote of
the bull god. Papa wanted me
to marry him, and so did my
brother Tecko, because if I
married a devote of the bull
god I couldn’t very well be the
heir to the sun goddess throne,
could I?”
“I guess not,” said Stan.
“Of course not. But I
wouldn’t marry any old Mino-
taur. So when the frozen pic-
ture had to be made and
buried in the palace wall at
Cnossos, that crummy kid
brother of mine decided if I
got frozen in it he’d be heir
to our father’s throne, not me.
Just for spite, he froze the
Minotaur in, too. And here we
are.”
“Here you are,” Stan said,
not knowing what to believe.
“I don’t see any Minotaur.”
“You don’t see me, either,
because it’s dark. But believe
me, the Minotaur is around.”
“What does he want to do
with you?”
The girl’s laughter was
grim this time. “He had a
crush on me three thousand
years ago. He’s been carrying
a torch three thousand years.
101
You go ahead and figure it
out.”
“Oh.”
“We can outfox him,
though.”
“How?”
“Take me home to live with
you. He’s afraid to leave the
museum, you see. Me, though,
I guess I’m just uninhibited.”
“You can say that again,”
Stan told her, remembering
the kiss.
“Well then, come on. Hey,
what was that?”
Stan heard it too, a sound
in the darkness, as if one of
the Minoan Room exhibits had
been disturbed, accidentally or
otherwise. This was followed
by the shattering noise of
broken crockery and a loud ex-
clamation in a language Stan
didn’t understand.
Then a bass voice called ;
“I’m coming, Teusa!”
And Teusa — for such was
the Minoan Princess’ name,
Stan discovered — cried, “You
keep away from me. I’ve got
protection, now. Stan Purcell
will kick your teeth in if you
come near me.”
There was a laugh and then
the sound of muffled footfalls
across the stone floor of the
Minoan Room. Stan crouched
quickly and groped for the
flashlight. He found it, pressed
the button, swung the beam of
light upward — and saw a well-
muscled man, his skin a gleam-
ing bronze and covered by
nothing more than a loin
apron despite all the fancy
clothing the Cretans were
known to have, sprinting to-
ward him.
Upon the man’s shoulders
and completely obscuring his
neck if he had any was the
hideous face of a hairy,
strangely pop-eyed bull.
The apparition pounded
down upon Stan like a run-
away locomotive. He barely
had time to rMse his hands in
defense. He was so awed by
the face of the creature that
instead of using his flashlight
as a club he continued to shine
it so he could study the thing.
A balled fist blurred across the
beam of light and into dark-
ness for an instant before
something exploded against
the side of Stan’s jaw. He
went down in a heap, squat-
ting over a pair of rubbery
legs which were, he soon
realized, his own.
“Hit him back!” Teusa
screamed.
Stan stood up groggily. He
had dropped the flashlight
again and now waited in dark-
ness, h's fists raised in front
of his chest, for the Minotaur.
“Man or beast,” Stan said,
still a little drunk and wonder-
ing if the ancient Minoans
102
AMAZING STORIES
employed oaths and challenges
as the later Romans did, “I’m
ready for you!”
There was a rush of sound.
Stan swung his right fist in a
wild haymaker and K. O.’d
nothing but air. He jabbed
with his left and heard Teusa
yelp.
Then something struck his
stomach, below his cocked
fists, driving all the wind
from his lungs as effectively
as a sledge hammer. Stan
knew, without looking, that it
was the great horned shaggy
head of the Minotaur.
He collapsed, clutching his
stomach. He heard Teusa’s
quick bare footfalls as she
plunged from the Minoan
Room with the Minotaur in
pursuit.
Teusa’s voice faded down
the hallway. “I’ll see you
again, Stan Purcell. I want to
see you again.”
Even when she shouted, the
voice was still sweet and
tangy as wine. But the high
shrill sound of it would bring
Sam Sawyer from the plane-
tarium or one of the other
guards. Stan struggled to his
feet, trying to gulp air into
his temporarily paralyzed
lungs. He made it on the third
try and staggered from the
Minoan Room, forgetting his
flashlight.
Leather-shod feet pounded
THE SIREN FROM CNOSSUS
in the corridor. It wasn’t
Teusa. It wasn’t' the Minotaur.
They had seemed to be bare-
foot.
“Who’s that?” a reedy voice
called. Sam Sawyer’s voice.
Stan lunged to the left
down a branching corridor
which took him by the Ice
Age exhibit. He could hear
Sam Sawyer tearing down the
hall after him. If he were
caught they would blame him
not only for the phony pic-
ture, but also for whatever
the Minotaur had broken in
the Minoan Room. He’d be
blackballed from the field of
archaeology. He ran on.
And tripped over some-
thing, crashing into a display
of semi-precious stones which
was barely visible in the
moonlight streaming in
through the high windows of
the Mineralogy Room, which
was adjacent to the Ice Age
exhibit.
The display case shattered,
peppering Stan, the floor and
the walls with flying glass.
Sam Sawyer bellowed and
charged into the . Mineralogy
Room. Stan watched a flash-
light beam cut a swath
through faint moonlight to-
ward him.
“I know you’re in here!”
Sam Sawyer cried.
Stan scooped up a handful
103
of the semi-precious stones
which were strewn about the
floor on all sides of him. He
propped himself up on one el-
bow and hurled the gems
across the room, hearing
them fall with a sound like
sleet on a tin roof.
Sam Sawyer yelped and
galloped in pursuit of the
noise. Waiting until he
thought the watchman was on
the far side of the Mineralogy
Room, Stan climbed to his feet
and streaked for the exit.
The sound of his own feet
drumming on the corridor
floor was very loud. The sound
of Sam Sawyer’s voice as the
watchman came after him was
louder, but he kept ahead of
the old man and rushed down
the stairs to the main floor of
the museum. Moments later,
he rushed through the door-
way to the planetarium and
joined the crowd which was
just filing out of the sky-show
auditorium.
A panting Sam Sawyer
came up to them, peering in-
tently at the scores of faces.
Stan was sure he hadn’t been
recognized in the darkness of
the museum. Perhaps the
watchman was looking for a
guilty expression.
“Evening, Sam,’’ Stan said.
“What are you doing out here
in the planetarium?’’
“Chasing an intruder, and
that’s the truth, Mr. Purcell,”
Sam Sawyer said.
“Well, let’s hope you catch
him.”
It was quiet under the big
trees in the planetarium park.
Stan wondered if Teusa and
the Minotaur w'ere out here
— somewhere on the streets of
New York — too.
“I see you’re back from the
Riviera,” said Mrs. Peabody,
Stan’s landlady.
“From Crete, you mean.”
“Crete, Shmeet. It’s all the
same to me. I knew you were
coming back because you al-
ready have a visitor.”
“Is that so?” Stan said,
wondering who it could be.
“Waiting in your room
now. Stan Purcell, you’re
lucky to have a broad-minded
landlady like Bertha Peabody,
you are. Other landladies
would be packing your bags
and leaving them outside on
the doorstoop, they would.
But — ” and Bertha Peabody
giggled, her plump triple chin
wagging “ — when I was
younger I used to go for the
college professor type too,
wdth horned-rim glasses and
all. Well, good night, Mr. Pur-
cell.” And the wddow' Peabody
shut the door to her room be-
hind her.
The visitor, Stan concluded
quite naturally, was a w^oman.
104
AMAZING STORIES
Nancy? Visiting him at this
late hour to try to patch things
up between them? Suddenly,
Stan wasn’t sure that he
wanted things patched up with
Nancy. She would never be
happy married to an archae-
ologist. He would never be
happy at any other job but
archaeology.
No, that wasn’t the reason.
He’d gone through all that be-
fore and come up with no
answer except that he thought
he was in love with Nancy
and you couldn’t pick your
mate oh the basis of what pro-
fession she did or did not like.
It was Teusa. He was think-
ing of Teusa, the self-styled
Minoan Princess. With her
tawny skin and fluffy red-
brown hair she was the most'
beautiful girl he had ever
seen. He would never forget
the way she had depended on
him to be her champion
against the Minotaur.
Stan climbed the two flights
of stairs to his small furnished
apartment. “Nancy?” he called
when he opened the door. He
waited for an answer, not
knowing what he would say
to her.
The convertible living room
was dark, as was the kitchen-
ette, but a light was coming
through the partially ajar
bathroom door.
“I’m in here, Stan,” a voice
said. It wasn’t Nancy. It was
Teusa.
Stan heard the sound of
water sloshing in the tub, and
gay singing in Teusa’s alien
language. The ancient Minoan
tongue, Stan remembered, had
never been deciphered, for no
equivalent of a Rosetta stone
had ever been found for it.
“Are you decent?” Stan
asked automatically.
“Of course I’m decent. At
least, I think I’m decent. I
hope you think I’m decent and
then some.”
Stan opened the door — and
wished he hadn’t while at the
same time he was glad he had.
Teusa was taking a bath.
Teusa’s Cretan skirt and
blouse were folded neatly on
the cover of the closed com-
mode. Teusa had worked up a
frothy lather in the bathtub
and was busy sloshing around
in it with a happy look on her
face. Now a bronzed leg would
appear above the foam and
now an arm and now a sleek,
suds-covered view of other
parts of Teusa’s anatomy.
Stan gaped and went on
gaping until Teusa said,
“What’s the matter, am I do-
ing it wrong? I figured that’s
what this tub was for, al-
though back on Crete we
cleaned ourselves by rubbing
on olive oil three or four times
THE SIREN FROM CNOSSUS
105
a year and scraping it off with
sand. If I’m doing it wrong,
will you please come here and
show me the right way?”
“I assure you, you’re doing
it right !” Stan bleated.
“Then what are you getting
so upset about? Calm down,
will you? Incidentally, when
you’re all finished, do you just
hop out dripping wet or shake
yourself dry or use some kind
of cloth, or what?”
“Teusa, you don’t under-
stand — ” Stan began.
“I know. I’ll bet you’re up-
set because you’re worrying
about the Minotaur.” Teusa
lifted a golden leg from the
water and began to soap it
with Stan’s washcloth. “Last
I saw of him, he was being
chased by the police for inde-
cent exposure or something
like that. It sure is confusing,
though. If it’s warm enough
outside just to be wearing a
loin apron like the Minotaur
was, what’s all the fuss
about?”
“It has nothing to do with
the temperature.”
“Well, never mind. Your
police will never hold the Min-
otaur, anyway. You know
what he was yelling when they
took him away?”
Stan said he did not.
“He vowed he was going
back to the museum as soon as
he escaped. He vowed he was
going to get a Cretan double-
ax from the Minoan Room and
find you and cut your head off
with one swipe of it.”
“What’s he got against
me?”
Teusa grinned as she
lathered up her neck and
shoulders and other things.
“Why, I told him how we felt
about each other.”
“You did what?” Stan ask-
ed. “I never said I felt one way
or the other about you.”
“You didn’t wake me up
after three thousand years
just for nothing. Do you
Americans believe in Destiny ?
We Minoans do. It was my
Destiny for you alone to find
me.”
Since Stan had already
done the finding, he couldn’t
very well argue with that. As
Teusa began to sit up in the
tub, he quickly went to the
rack and took down a large
bath towel, tossing it to her.
Teusa climbed from the tub
with the towel draped like a
tent from her shoulders. She
watched with fascination as a
little whirlpool formed in the
tub after Stan activated the
mechanical stopper.
“It sure is more fun than
an oil and sand bath,” Teusa
admitted. She rubbed her
stomach under the towel.
“Well, do we eat or don’t we?”
“All right, we eat. But after
106
AMAZING STORIES
that, you’re getting out of
here.”
“I have no place to go. You
can’t just put me out on the
street, can you?”
It was a good point, Stan
realized. He tried to imagine
what it would be like if he
suddenly found himself thrust
three thousand years into the
future. Whoever would put
him out, homeless and be-
wildered, in whatever passed
for a street then just would-
n’t be a worthy member of the
human race. On the other
hand . . .
Teusa took the towel from
her shoulder and folded it
across the rack. She was all
rose and copper loveliness
and, gulping, Stan turned his
back, groped for the skirt and
blouse on the commode and
handed them to her without
looking.
“Get dressed” he said.
“We’ll find a good restaurant.”
"Sure, it was a good meal,”
Teusa said two hours later.
“But you should try boar steak
sometime.”
“It’s very late,” Stan told
her as they entered the apart-
ment. “You can use the bed,
Teusa. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“But the bed is big enough
for both of us.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Stan
pleaded.
THE SIREN FROM CNOSSUS
“Why shouldn’t I tempt
you ?” Teusa asked him naive-
ly.
“If you want to stay here,
sleep in the bed and I’ll sleep
on the floor and don’t ask
questions like that. We’ll fig-
ure out what to do with you
in the morning.”
Teusa shrugged, gave him
a playful kiss, then an un-
playful one, chucked her skirt
and blouse in the darkness,
watched Stan convert the
hide-a-bed, then bounced hap-
pily on it. “Wow!” she cried.
“If the guys back at Cnossus
could see me now! This is
some bed.”
And some Teusa, Stan
thought as he spread a blanket
on the floor for himself. First
he couldn’t sleep because every
few minutes Teusa would
giggle, bounce on the foam
rubber mattress and squeal,
“This is some bed.” Then he
couldn’t sleep because Teusa
was there, scant feet from
him, breathing regularly,
sleeping like a baby and he
remembered how beautiful she
was and knew at the same
time he was at a loss as to
what he could do with her.
And then he couldn’t sleep
because the floor was hard
and his back began to ache.
The doorbell awoke him just
after he had drifted off to
sleep an hour or two after
107
sunrise. At first he forgot
where he was. He tried to
bolt off the bed and found he
was on the floor and staggered
across it toward the door. On
his way, he noticed that Teusa
wasn’t on the bed. The bath-
room door was closed, so he
assumed Teusa was in there.
Whoever had come to the door,
he hoped Teusa would stay
out of sight.
He opened the door and
blurted, “Nancy!”
She stood there, trim and
blonde, with an armload of
groceries.
“I figured a bachelor would
love his breakfast served to
him on his second day home
from Crete.”
“I — I’ve already eaten,”
Stan said.
Nancy stopped smiling. “At
seven o’clock in the morning?”
“Well, you see — ”
“Stan, I’ve come to make up
with you, but if that’s your
attitude I’ll go right on home
and never bother you again.”
“That’s not my attitude. I
don’t know. I’m tired. I didn’t
sleep well. Come in if you
want to.”
“If I want to?”
“Please come in, Nancy. By
all means, come in.”
Nancy pecked at his cheek
with cool dry lips and depos-
ited the groceries on the coffee
table in the living room. She
108
was about to head for the
kitchenette w'hen the bath-
room door opened and Teusa
said, “Who’s the yellow-haired
girl, your slave or some-
thing?”
Teusa was already wearing
her skirt but was just slipping
the puff-sleeved Cretan blouse
over her head. “If you had told
me sooner you had a girl slave,
Stan,” she said brightly, “I
could have had her bathe me.
She’s not bad looking. Did you
get her from the Northland?
That’s where all blonde people
come from, the Northland.”
“Stan Purcell,” gasped
Nancy, who had taken consid-
erable time to catch her
breath, “you — you philander-
er!”
“I can explain everything!”
wailed Stan. “At least, I can
try.”
“It’s quite clear,” Nancy
told him frostily, “that you
don’t have to explain anything
to me.”
“She sure is a cocky slave,”
said Teusa. “Why don’t you
beat her?”
Squawking and stammer-
ing, Nancy fled.
“I’d sell her if I were you,”
Teusa said after Nancy had
slammed the door behind her.
If he answered, Stan sus-
pected, he would start yelling.
Instead, he turned on the
AMAZING STORIES
radio — which amazed and
fascinated Teusa — and began
to putter around with the
groceries Nancy had left on
the coffee table. On the
radio, the seven o’clock news
commentator was saying :
“And this item from New
York. A man whom the police
regard as a potentially dan-
gerous lunatic escaped early
this morning from the deten-
tion cell of the Forty-first
Precinct. Booked for indecent
exposure and disturbing the
peace, the man had been
arrested last night a few
blocks from the Museum of
Natural History. He gave his
name as Mino Taur and his
address as Street of the Bull
Baiter, Cnossus, Crete. When
last seen he was wearing only
a strange garment which
barely covered his upper legs
and carrying the huge hairy
mask of a bull. Police suspect
this man to be violent. And
now, for our sponsor ...”
“He escaped,” Stan said.
“I heard. But how did the
little box know?”
“Never mind. Do you think
he’ll come here?”
“I know he will, if he can
find out at the museum where
you live. I’m not worried,
though. You’ll protect me.”
“I’ll protect you?” Stan
cried. “But who’s going to
protect — never mind.” Sud-
denly, he found it very flatter-
ing to be cast in the role of
Teusa’s champion. And sure-
ly the Minotaur wouldn’t come
after him brandishing a
Cretan double-ax and bent on
mayhem . . .
Or would he?
While Teusa listened with
mounting excitement to the
magic of the radio, Stan wait-
ed until nine o’clock and then
called Dr. Hawley Hatton at
the museum. “This is Purcell,”
Stan said.
“And I happen to be a very
busy man.”
“If you listened to the radio,
maybe you heard about the
Minotaur — ”
“Oh, for crying out loud,
Purcell. Don’t start thinking
every madman you hear about
is a creature from the past.”
“But I saw him with my
own eyes, Dr. Hatton. Last
night at the museum.”
“What did you say?”
“I mean, I — well — ” Stan
wished he could yank his foot
out of his mouth, but knew
it was too late.
“Listen to me, Purcell. I
don’t know what you’re up to,
but if you were at the museum
last night I have a good mind
to turn you over to the po-
lice.”
“I can explain everything,”
Stan said for the second time
THE SIREN FROM CNOSSUS
109
this morning and knew for the
second time he could not.
“Someone was at the mu-
seum last night, all right.
Someone broke a valuable
Minoan II vase. Someone
shattered a show case in the
Mineralogy Room. The head
watchman couldn’t catch him.
And then, if this doesn’t top
everything, he came back
later, forcing his way in some-
how, and stealing a genuine
Cretan double-ax from the
Minoan Room. By God, Pur-
cell, if it was you I’ll see to it
the police throw the book at
you.”
“I didn’t steal anything,”
Stan said lamely, wondering
if that would satisfy Hatton.
“You’ll hear more about
this, Purcell.”
Stan was afraid he would.
"Did you say a Cretan double-
ax was stolen?”
“You’re damned right that’s
what I said. Purcell, I’m going
to want you down here for the
police investigation. If you
don’t promise to come of your
own free will, I can get the
police to issue a warrant.”
“I’ll be there,” Stan prom-
ised. Thinking of the stolen
double-ax and the Minotaur
on the loose, he would like
nothing better than to be
among the police.
“Is that another kind of
radio?” Teusa asked, pointing
at the telephone after Stan
had hung up.
“I was talking to the direc-
tor of the museum,” Stan ex-
plained. “We’re going right
over there.”
“If you say so. But I
thought we’re in some kind of
trouble over there.”
“We’ll be in worse trouble
if the Minotaur succeeds in
finding us.”
“I’m not afraid as long as
you’re here.”
Just then Stan heard a
scream come floating, disem-
bodied, up the stairwell in the
hall outside. A moment later
there was the pounding of
feet on the landing, followed
by a loud shattering sound at
the door. The door shook and
something sharp and gleam-
ing appeared for an instant
through a crack in the wood,
then was withdrawn.
“Help!” someone screamed.
Stan recognized Mrs. Pea-
body’s voice.
The door shook again, then
collapsed as if it were made
not of wood but of cardboard,
with a great gash in its mid-
dle and hanging into the
apartment dangling from one
hinge.
Wearing his bull mask and
brandishing a three-foot-long
Cretan double-ax either blade
of which could decapitate
an elephant, the Minotaur
110
AMAZING STORIES
charged, uttering a fearsome
batle cry, into the apartment.
“Go get him, Stan!” Teusa
shouted gleefully. So saying,
she scampered across the
room out of Stan’s way. Stan
clutched wildly at a kitchen
chair and lifted it overhead
just as the Minotaur reached
him, swinging the double-ax
with both hands like a base-
ball bat.
Stan met the downward
swing of the ax with his chair,
and watched the four legs
sliced neatly from it as if they
had been held there with
Scotch tape. The Minotaur
swung completely around and
sent the double-ax blade whis-
tling at Stan’s head again.
What was left of the chair
met it and flew from Stan’s
hands as the ax continued in
its downward arc, deflected a
few inches by the chair so that
it missed Stan, the blade bury-
ing itself four inches in the
hard oak flooring of the apart-
ment.
The Minotaur braced both
feet, one on either side of his
weapon, and tugged. Watch-
ing him warily, Stan lifted the
second kitchen chair and held
it ready. Finally, with a
mighty tug, the Minotaur
pulled his double-ax free of
the floor, but Minotaur and ax
went hurtling across the room,
THE SIREN FROM CNOSSUS
the former striking the far
wall with a bone-jarring thud
and the latter clattering
across the floor and under the
sink in the kitchenette.
Stan took three running
strides into the kitchenette
and dove under the sink,
where the Minotaur soon join-
ed him and grappled with him
there for possession of the
double-ax. While the Mino-
taur’s thumbs explored Stan’s
face, attempting to gouge out
his eyes, Stan yanked at the
two great horns on the bull
mask and forced the Mino-
taur’s head back. The Mino-
taur howled in outraged pro-
test and Stan was all set to
congratulate hipiself when the
mask came off in his hands,
the Minotaur broke free of
him, got hold of the double-ax,
stood up and swung the weap-
on in a wild swipe.
Ducking his head, Stan
heard the blade of the double-
ax clang against one of the
pipes under the sink. Seconds
later, Stan was doused by a
powerful jet of water from
the ruptured pipe,
“We had better plumbing
than this back in Crete,” the
Minotaur said, and swung his
double-ax again, shattering
the enamel of the sink as he
narrowly missed Stan’s head.
Stan got in under the Cretan’s
lunge and was wrestling with
111
him and shouting to Teusa to
keep out of the way and hop-
ing the Minotaur would lack
sufficient leverage to swing
his weapon again.
As he forced the Minotaur
back across the room, Stan
was dimly aware of shouts in
the hallway, of Mrs. Peabody’s
anxious voice, other voices. A
stout policeman whose face
was red from climbing the
three flights of stairs to the
apartment stood in the door-
way, mopping his brow and
looking incredulously at what
he saw inside.
The Minotaur saw him,
must have recognized the uni-
form as signifying law since
his brush the night before
with the men in blue. Break-
ing loose from Stan, he swung
the double-ax in a graceful,
almost easy arc. The side of
the blade caught the police-
man on the side of his face
and the policeman went down,
his drawn pistol banging on
the floor. Then Stan closed
with the Minotaur again and
heard Mrs. Peabody yelling
some more.
“O.K. !” Teusa yelled ab-
ruptly. “If you don’t drop that
ax. I’ll kill you.” She must
have recognized the police-
man’s gun for a weapon. She
was clutching it in both hands
and pointing the butt of the
.38 revolver at the Minotaur.
The gaping hole of the barrel
was pointed squarely at her
own chest and one of her fin-
gers was tightening on the
trigger.
“No!” Stan roared. “Teusa,
look out. You’ll kill yourself.
Teusa!”
But Teusa ignored him and
told the Minotaur, “I’m going
to count three.”
While fighting with the
Minotaur, when death hover-
ed just over his head in the
form of the bronze blade of
the double-ax, Stan hadn’t
feared for his safety. He had
fought unthinkingly, violently
— and, he realized, with con-
siderable and surprising suc-
cess. But now it was different.
Now Teusa’s life was in dan-
ger because she was trying to
help him.
'The Minotaur bellowed a
fierce Cretan oath and came
at Stan once more. Stan re-
sponded with a loud echoing
cheer from his college days,
stepped inside the swing of
the double-ax as Teusa said,
“One,” and smote the Mino-
taur across the bridge of his
nose with his right fist.
The Minotaur staggered
back, still clutching his dou-
ble-ax. “Two,” said Teusa,
still pointing the revolver at
her own breast and apparent-
ly in earnest about using it
112
AMAZING STORIES
although completely ignorant
of what the results would be.
Stan buried his left first in
the bare flesh of the Mino-
taur’s bare midsection- and
heard the Cretan expell all the
air from his lungs. Then Stan
crossed his right fist to the
Minotaur’s jaw before Teusa
could say “three” and the
Minotaur stumbled to his
knees and pitched forward on
his face.
“Baby!” Stan cried, turn-
ing to Teusa. He was hardly
aware of Mrs. Peabody rush-
ing into the room tearfully
and examining her ruined
door. He took Teusa in his
arms and kissed her and said,
“You were trying to help me,
but you would have killed
yourself. Baby, baby . . .”
And their kisses, Cretan
and American, bridge the gap
of three thousand years and
they might have stood that
way, kissing forever, if the
Minotaur had not climbed
groggily to his feet. Stan let
go of 'Teusa and took the re-
volver from her hand, facing
the Minotaur with it.
“That’s all right,” the Min-
otaur said, sulking, “I know
when I’m licked. If a man
can’t fight whenever he wants
to and can’t go around wear-
ing whatever clothing he
wants, this place isn’t for me.
I won’t give you any trouble.”
“And you’ll leave me
alone?” Teusa asked him.
“If you’re crazy enough to
stay here in this fantastic
century. I’ll leave you alone.”
Teusa hugged Stan and then
they were talking with the
Minotaur about what could be
done while Mrs. Peabody was
trying to revive the uncon-
scious policeman. Finally,
Stan gave the Minotaur a suit
of his clothing and, while the
Minotaur got dressed, Stan
put the bull’s head mask and
the double-ax in a valise.
Then, with the Minotaur and
Teusa, Stan set out for the
museum, first promising to
pay Mrs. Peabody for the
broken door if she insisted to
the policeman that he had
been seeing things and must
have stumbled against the
doorjamb and thus knocked
himself unconscious.
Sam Sawyer was guarding
the Minoan Room of the mu-
seum when Stan, Teusa and
the Minotaur reached it.
“Hi, Sam,” Stan said.
“No one can go in there.
There’s going to be an inves-
tigation in about an hour.”
Stan took a ten-dollar bill
from his pocket and gave it
to the watchman. “We’re go-
ing in,” he said, “if it’s all
right with you.”
“It’s not all right with me.”
(Concluded on page J 17)
THE SIREN FROM CNOSSUS
113
W ITH this issue, Amazing Stories starts a new department
in which we hope to bring you news and reviews of the
latest books in the field — science fiction novels and anthologies,
fantasies, and books on such scientific subjects as space flight,
space medicine, cybernetics, robotics, parapsychology, and the
like. The critic must apply himself to his task with a typically
split mind : to review on the basis of what he, as a professional
reader, likes and respects ; and on the other hand, to examine
his criticism in the light of the author’s intent, and the audi-
ence’s taste. Herewith, then, our first department :
SHADOWS IN THE SUN. By Chad Oliver. 152 pp. Ballantine
Books. 35^ paper; $2.00 hard cover.
Mr. Oliver, a respected s-f writer, has here written a tale of
an anthropologist who investigates a small Texas town, and
discovers it to be filled with Galactics who are using Earth
(as they do all Earth-type planets as lehensraum. The 6,000
inhabitants are humanoid, but non-human.
What can Paul Ellery do? No military invasion is planned —
merely a slow seepage from outer space. Were he to broadcast
his discovery, Paul would wind up in a mental institution.
What he does do about it and how he makes peace with his
conscience as well as his girl is the theme of a book which,
while well-written, goes nowhere. This novel needed a rousing
menace — an element of danger which would have given sus-
pense and importance to the story. Without it, “Shadows In
the Sun’’ becomes a failure.
114
THE BEST SCIENCE FICTION STORIES 1954. Edited by Everett
F. Bleiler and T. E. Dikty. 31 6 pp. Frederick Fell. $3.50
All thirteen stories in this excellent collection are good ; a
couple are superb. Amazing is represented by two ; “The Col-
lectors”, in which G. Gordon Dewey and Max Dancey tell of
an incident which might happen to any of us in the subway,
but which, fortunately, doesn’t; while, in “The Last Day”,
Richard Matheson writes so vividly of Earth’s end and its
impact on a family as to leave a powerful and lasting impres-
sion. Jack Vance’s “D.P.” is a tale of the day millions of
troglodytes crawled up out of the center of the Earth, and
what happened to them — an ironic, beautifully underwritten
novelet of Man’s inhumanity to Man-kind. Alfred Bester, that
walking atomic pile, furnishes another brilliant tour-de~force
in “Time Is the Traitor” ; Fritz Leiber, who wrote the anthol-
ogy’s Introduction, smashes out a three-bagger with “The Big
Holiday”, and one of his best stories, “A Bad Day For Sales.”
On the up-beat side are William Morrison’s chucklesome
vignette, “Model of a Judge”, and Ruth M. Goldsmith’s
“Yankee Exodus”, in which a newcomer to science fiction
plants both shapely feet firmly on your funnybone. Other
writers represented are Joseph Shallit with “Wonder Child” ;
J. T. McIntosh with “One In Three Hundred”; Walter M.
Miller with “Crucifixus Etiam” ; Ward Moore with “Lot” ; and
Mark Clifton and Alex Apostolides with “What Thin Parti-
tions.” A must for any collector, and certainly to be recom-
mended to all who appreciate good examples of science fiction
short stories.
SATELLITE E ONE. By Jeffery Lloyd Castle. 223 pp. Dodd, Mead,
& Co. $3.00
In the hands of an adept, even a cliche may turn out to be
a surprise. At first thought, what could be more boring to the
s-f aficionado than another narrative of the building of the
first Space Station? You’re in for a surprise. Mr. Castle has
written a story which is so fresh, so surprising, so full of
human interest as to make this book a discovery. The secret of
his success is to be found in his handling of character: we
know each person so well that we can identify with him. There
THE SPECTROSCOPE
115
are no heroes and no villains in the tale — there are only
human beings. When, added to this grasp of characterization,
a writer demonstrates literacy, an imposing and genuine
grasp of science, and the ability to transmit fictional clarity
and excitement, we welcome him with open arms, proclaiming
this book a worthy contender for the title of the best science
fiction novel of the year.
CONAN THE BAEBARIAN. By Robert E. Howard. 22U pp. Gnome
Press. $3.00
I have always had a weak spot in my heart for Conan, that
giant barbarian who lived in the prehistoric age invented by
his creator, the late Robert E. Howard. This, the fifth in the
series of books which chronicle the adventures of Conan, may
well be the best. Mr. Howard’s style, of the “thud-and-blunder”
school, is saved by one grace : he believed in his creation with
such force and fury that some of it seeped out of his tortured
heart, and into his ink. The chapter titles tell their own story :
“Black Colossus,” “Shadows In the Moonlight”, “A Witch
Shall Be Born”, “Shadows In Zamboula”, and “The Devil In
Iron.” Each is a separate adventure, and each should re-
awaken those joyous ferocities we knew as adolescents, when,
in fantasy, we allowed our burgeoning aggressions free and
ecstatic play. With all their faults, the tales of Conan move
you still.
DESIGN OF THE UNIVERSE. By Fritz Kahn. 373 pp. Crown Pub-
lishers. $5.00
The cautious critic carps carefully, lest he get the reputa-
tion of being too easily pleased. I don’t care. This book calls
for every superlative in Roget’s listing under “wonderful.”
Here, between two covers, are a college education in science,
a fund of fascinating stories about the men who have made
our world, and an explanation of the natural laws which
govern the universe — all written with unrivalled sanity, lucid-
ity, simplicity, and clarity. Here are the latest theories con-
cerning those microcosmic worlds, the atoms ; the latest
discoveries about the giant worlds of the macrocosmos which
swim above our heads. For the writer of science fiction, here
,116
AMAZING STORIES
are facts which can lead to that peculiar rationale which
ultimately emerges as a story idea. For the layman, here is a
painless, fascinating education in physics, chemistry, astron-
omy, geology — indeed, in the whole body of science. There are
few teachers whose innate simplicity (paradoxically, the re-
sult of great complexity) can match Dr. Kahn’s : his writing
has the limpid lucidity of a great gem. As a reference source,
“Design of the Universe” is unrivalled. As a book to while
away the time, it offers more excitement than most science
fiction novels. Now that I’ve read it, I’m thinking of getting
Dr. Kahn’s first book, “Man In Structure and Function.” Any-
one who can write nonfiction as he does is a pleasure to have
around. Whether layman or scientist, science fiction reader or
writer, this is the book for you. the end
THE SIREN FROM CNOSSUS (Concluded from page 113)
But Sam Sawyer winked. “A
feller can turn his back.”
Inside the Minoan Room,
Sam opened his suitcase, took
out the double-ax and placed
it back on its wall prongs.
Then Stan was busy kissing
Teusa again and assuring her
he loved her while the Mino-
taur slipped out of Stan’s suit
and put it in the valise.
“You’re sure?” Stan asked.
“Yes,” said the Minotaur,
and shook hands with Stan,
gave Teusa a quick kiss on her
cheek, and stepped inside the
picture frame, where Stan
adjusted the bull’s head mask.
“How does it work?”
“Press the button on the
side,” said the Minotaur. “And
hurry up. I’ve had enough of
this crazy place. If I slept a
frozen sleep three thousand
years I guess I can sleep three
thousand more years. Maybe
then, when I wake up, the peo-
ple in that age will appreciate
a devote of the bull god.”
“I hope so,” Stan said de-
voutly, pressing the button.
Seconds later, the Minotaur
looked like a photograph.
There would be a lot to ex-
plain, of course. There was the
matter of the broken Minoan
vase and the shattered show
case in the Mineralogy Room,
and the beautiful girl missing
from the photograph.
But Stan thought Hatton
would be satisfied with the
picture of the Minotaur. Stan
would get his job back, he
knew, and if the picture was
minus its beautiful Cretan
girl, Stan would know where
to lay his hands on her.
Which was an excellent
idea! the END
117
THE SPECTROSCOPE
I see you are being fooled by what statisticians might call
a biased sample. Does the fact that 324 letter writers want a
letter section, while only 51 letter writers don’t want one,
mean that the readers are six to one in favor of a letter sec-
tion? I, for one, buy science-fiction magazines to read fiction.
If I wanted to read letters I would buy “Pen Pals.”
Come on, readers, write a postcard in favor of fiction, or the
letter writers will take over the whole magazine by default.
Cloyd Woolley, Jr.
c/o Otto Long, Bellport, New York
• Your call to the colors, Cloyd, seems a little premature. We
sit here and read the mail and hope for the best. So many
pages will he set aside for the letter ivriters, so many for the
fanzines, so many for book reviews. But put them all together
and they spell about ten percent of the entire contents, yet
these are features more than that percentage of our readers
have asked for. The quality of stories and illustrations will
more than make up for the “lost” pages. — ED.
Dear Sirs :
I read both Amazing and Fantastic. I enjoy every story in
both issues.
Let’s have longer novels. Why don’t you start a new maga-
zine and publish the novels and short novels that appeared in
118
AAAAZING STORIES
Amazing and Fantastic back in the early years of them. I
know that many of us new readers would like it for we missed
all of them.
Gordon Johnson
Rt. 5, Box 170, El Dorado, Ark.
• It’s tough enough these days to sell new material, let alone
reprint magazines. By using the old novels, a publisher auto-
matically eliminates all readers who read them originally.
There are still plenty of good stories being written these days;
we’ll bring them to you every issue . — ED.
Dear Mr. Browne :
In response to your little note at the bottom of page 128,
I’m writing in to congratulate you on your decision to switch
back to the “old-style” Amazing. I’m pretty sure that once
you complete the change. Amazing will return to its former
respect.
You’ve printed some pretty sorry material since going into
slick format, so maybe now we can settle back into getting
some good reading done.
I’d like to congratulate you and the artists for the cover
(March) and the illos on page 6-7 and 77. The others seemed
to be “lifeless.” More by Beecham.
Haven’t read the stories yet, but if they are as good as the
illustrations and blurbs promise, I’ll enjoy them no end.
Again, congratulations on a wise choice of action.
Sam Johnson
(No address given)
• Actually, Sam, we’re not going back to the “old-style”
Amazing. We simply intend to restore some of the good fea-
tures from the pre-digest days: “tighte7-” illustrations, more
action stories, and the features that reader demand say should
never have been dropped. The next few months should tell %is
hoxv successful the experiment has been . — ED.
Dear Ed.
I have three favors to ask of you and all three have to do
with getting this letter published.
First and foremost is getting a collection of saucer reports.
... OR SO YOU SAY 119
I want any and all persons who have seen or heard of anyone
who has seen or heard of a flying saucer to write me a letter.
In that letter I want all the facts, including time, location,
description, weather conditions, and any other information
they care to include. I also want clippings from newspapers
and magazines ; please include name of newspaper, magazine,
etc.
Second, I have a collection of magazines (not complete)
that I would like to sell or swap ; write me stating what you
want.
Third, I wish to contact fans interested in magnetic power.
What the hell is this MP? I don’t know; I became interested
in it when I read an article in a magazine stating that MP
was the power behind the flying saucers.
Congrats to you on a very fine magazine, the most complete
I have ever read,
Jerry F. Viles
Route 1, Heiskell, Tenn,
• Ain’t you heard, Jerry? They ain’t no flying saucers.
Everybody’ll tell you that — except the people who’ve seen
them! — ED.
Dear Sirs:
I love astronomy a lot and I think Amazing is the best I
have read in a long time. I think the editor and the art editor
have done a good job.
The Readers’ Section will be a good column to learn how
other people feel about the book.
Michael Levine
3561 Cedarbrook, Cleveland, Ohio
• Thanks for your interest, Mike. The younger reader of
science-fiction has done much by his support to make Amazing
the leader in the field. Your letters are always welcome . — ED.
Dear Mr. Browne :
By this letter I want to go on record as voting for a Read-
ers’ Letter Section, And frankly I don’t know why. I’ve only
written one letter to a magazine in my life. That was to Amaz-
ing several years ago before it went through the CHANGE.
120
AMAZING STORIES
In fact that was the subject discussed. At that time ole A. S.
was being left far behind. If my memory serves me correctly
you had just gotten into the saddle.
Well, thanks, Mr. Browne, for bringing the magazine out of
the tall corn. I am beginning to line my copies up on one of
my den Shelves instead of in the attic. It is accompanied by
only two other magazines.
The only way I know to prove my delight with Amazing
under your guidance is to enclose a check for a two-year sub-
scription. You will find it herewith. All this is from a reader
who gave up his weekly allowance and a Saturday double
feature of Tom Mix and a Joe Eonomo serial to buy the first
copy of Amazing Stories that hit the newsstand in a little
Georgia town long years ago . . . and never regretted it.
By the way, sir, on the last page of a certain book I have
before me is printed :
*What befell Tharn during his search for the girl
he loved will be told in the second book of Tharn.
I have waited ten years for this book. Is it coming? I’m
I'eally serious.
I’m also glad to see the more or less short-short stories in
the magazine. . . . Seriously, Mr. Browne, thanks for a fine
magazine. Just make it monthly.
J. G. David
Box 205, Bishopville, S. C.
• Your subscription is appreciated, J. G. and has been put
through. . . . The sequel to Warrior of the Dawn appeared as a
serial in Amazing Stories during the later part of 19^8. While
we have no back issues containing the story, any one of the
readers ivho collect back issues ivill be able to help you . — ED.
Mr. Browne:
The artwork in the March issue of Amazing was a great im-
provement over past issues. I especially liked the interior work
by Finlay. As for the cover, it certainly had sharp colors that
would attract attention. I liked it.
Now to the stories: "You Could Be Wrong,’’ was the best.
I say this because it was different . . . what an ending ! Lesser’s
“The Rusted Jungle’’ rates second. Having a culture based on
a science-fiction magazine made it even more interesting. “The
. . . OR SO YOU SAY
121
Psionic Mousetrap” fell flat because of bad writing or some-
thing. Although the plot was good I didn’t care for it. “Dis-
satisfaction Guaranteed” may have been silly but I enjoyed it
nonetheless.
Being a new reader of your magazine I have seen only a
few issues of the old Amazing with features and departments.
Yet I believe you made a mistake in dropping them when
you changed to digest size. Now that you’re going to return
them Amazing will have more personality, life, and the spark
that stories alone just can’t give a magazine. The problem
is will it give Amazing more readers. Only time will tell.
I would like to correspond with any reader who cares to
write.
Dan Adkins
General Delivery, East Liverpool, Ohio
• “Personality, life, and the spark” are what we’re after,
Dan. If those qualities are important to our readership, it
won’t take long to find out. But we’re not going to lose sight
of the fact that the story is the thing. — ED.
Gentlemen :
That any editor or author in our times should be unac-
quainted with the scriptures and the classics is inconceivable
and as everyone knows these aforesaid sources are founded
on the principles of the fasting as well as for the develop-
ment of intelligence, endurance and life, even to the point of
eternally continuing physical life, perpetually growing
stronger while constantly making longer fasts necessary in
order to prevent the physical dissolution which otherwise
would be the unavoidable case. If our entire modern culture
is resting on the base of knowledge supplied by these afore-
said thinkers, how can it be then that “Democracy and nutri-
tion” could have come to be the base from which our re-
called “sciences” go out in their researches. Since anything
so obvious as the one falling for appetites should starve when
he does not consume foods, it ought to be equally clear that
the one not falling for appetites and who is holding food on
principle in contempt does not trouble his nervous system,
with the result that there is no digestion, accordingly no need
for replacement and subsequently no need of nutrition and
122
AMAZING STORIES
consumption of so-callcd “foods” as long as he neither de-
stroys his body or dissolves the foods entered in his body
when appetites do not exist in the temptations for his pleasure.
Allow this to be said to your authors, so shall these same
authors produce a new type of literature making over the
total theories upon which we have for the past 200 years
desperately attempted to function a word in numberless
teachings of different types of contradictions.
The proof that this is so is already known to all men of
education in the world today, so more need not be said. Ex-
cept that they may look at the differences in the translations
of the scriptures to get a better idea of the counterfeiting of
the translations of the sciences of old.
G. F. Weidenhall
Royalhuset, Koping, Sweden
• So watch it, see ? — ED.
Dear Editor:
Here is a letter with no gripes, so it will probably be a little
dull. However, I like the new format, the covers, the stories,
and the letters with your straightforward comments.
It would be wonderful to have a magazine with covers by
Bonestell (or equivalent, profuse illustrations in color), and
with the pick of the world’s best science fiction. But stf read-
ers realize that we are too few in number to support such a
dream, and that an editor must do the best he can. As for me,
I read all the stf magazines and feel I get my money’s worth,
though some stories and even whole issues are pretty
weak.
I like the Letters Department, especially when they show a
few differences of opinion. It shows the readers are thinking,
though their conclusions differ.
For instance, I don’t believe we will ever have any off-the-
earth travel as long as we have to depend upon rockets with
chemical fuel. I think the best attainable exhaust velocities
would still be so slow as to make it necessary to carry so much
weight that we couldn’t even make a round trip to the moon.
It looks like such voyaging is going to wait until some control
of gravity is found. Impossible? Well, do you suppose Michael
Faraday could have foreseen radar?
. . . OR SO YOU SAY
123
Anyway, keep at it as long and as well as you can. I like
Amazing and I'll buy it as long as you print it.
F. W. Zwicky
2244 So. 6th St., Rockford, 111.
• We had the magazine — hvo of ’em, in fact — you describe
in your second paragraph. They sold well, too — but not well
enough to continue publishing them. So we dropped the color
and the book-type paper as unnecessary fripperies, and con-
centrated on bringing our readers strong stories and illustra-
tions. . . . Differences of opinion are what make a Letters
Department worth the pages used. You can’t very well say,
“Okay, readers, start fighting at the count of three!’’ Even-
tually one reader gets sore, in print, at what another reader
says — and the fight is on, ivith practically everybody taking
sides. That’s when the department takes on character . — ED.
Dear Mr. Browne :
I’m very happy that Amazing is putting back the depart-
ments, and I think the letter section is a fine start. I’m looking
forward to the book- and fanzine-review departments.
The March cover of Amazing is very good, and the interior
illustrations are wonderful. They really have taken a change
for the better.
This is how I rate the stories in the March issue: 1. “The
Rusted Jungle’’ by Milton Lesser. A truly great story by a
v/onderful author. It could use a sequel. 2. “Two to the Stars’’
by Ivar Jorgensen. Another great story by one of my favorite
stf authors. It also could use a sequel. 3. “You Could be
Wrong’’ by Robert Bloch. One of Bloch’s best. 4 “The Psionic
Mousetrap’’ by Murray Leinster. A good story but the ending
was a little difficult. 5. “Dissatisfaction Guaranteed’’ by John
Toland. A good humorous story.
As for Mr. Farbles, I think he should be satisfied when he
sees the lineup for the March issue. I agree with Mr. Dietz
about a Readers Department, and about long stories. I’d rather
read two long stories than five shorts.
I agree with you too, ed. Amazing and Fantastic covers
have improved. The December cover on Fantastic and the
January cover on Amazing were two of the best I’ve ever
seen.
124
AMAZING STORIES
And how about some stories by you, Mr. B.? Your story
"Twelve Times Zero’’ in the first issue of IF was wonderful!
Harvey Schweitzer
(Address not given)
• Your rating of the stories in the March issue, Harvey,
was representative of the majority, which is why we’ve used
it. Glad you liked the last few covers — but they’re going to
look pretty pale compared with those we’ve got coming up. . . .
Your editor is doing most of his writing these days over in the
(ugh!) detective and suspense fields. — ED.
Dear Howard Browne:
You will no doubt remember [You bet we do! — Ed.] under
what different conditions was the last time — quite a few years
back — when we came via mail in contact with one another. As
I can hardly remember what the cause of our somewhat
animated discussion of that period was, it is just as well that
it stays buried. Though, come to think of it, I believe that at
that time I waxed heatedly over various transfigurations that
the old Fantastic and Amazing underwent, both in format and
contents. Such things as the shrinkage of size to pocketbook
or digest dimensions and the increase of price at the same
time used to do everything close to infuriating me . . . espe-
cially when comparisons of most war-time and post-war
issues of Fantastic and Amazing must be made in contrast
to the recent format of the last two or three years. But such
things scarcely perplex me any more. I’ve but to glance about
me at the overall deterioration of most of the SF "field” to
realize that most every publisher/editor is in the same
boat. . . .
In view of what most SF publishing efforts of today are,
the uncalled for debasement of the once “lowly” pulp format
— and its contents — now makes it seem quite a bit the other
way around. The question is: if we had to go back hardly
more than ten years with the same type of format that Amaz-
ing and Fantastic are now in, placing them both side by side
with the Amazing Stories and Fantastic Adventures of that
period, would you give the "new-look” Amazing and Fantastic
even six months to survive even if they sold for 20^ a copy?
Or better still, if it had to sell at 35^ and still be competing
. . . OR SO YOU SAY
125
with the 25^ 190 or 210 pages, and the typical format offered
by Amazing then, would it even last one issue?
I’m afraid I’ve put together a more complicated group of
sentences than is permissable. So I’ll just say it tersely and
bluntly over again: I do not think that if the present 1955
format of Amazing and Fantastic had to sell in competition
with the 1945-46 pulp format, they’d survive more than one
issue even at lOij; less per copy, I just bring this up in order
to clarify a point which I think should be well thought over
and taken.
If there were a resurgence of the “old type” of SF mags we
once knew and liked so much, it would help a lot to restore
life in a declining and gradually atrophying market. This
means a lot of publishers, aside from your own, might be wise
in abandoning the so-called dignified “digest” format, which
they thought would be a financial Godsend, but which in
reality turned out to be a bigger bust than the pulps ever
were. Oh, there’s no denying that a mag like the kind of
Fantastic you had with the first three or four issues won’t
sell well. However, when such a mag gradually turns into
nothing more than a poor replica of its former 25^ pulp
format (and costs 10^ more per copy . . . and gives approxi-
mately 40% less reading matter), it becomes naught but an
object of pity.
The truth is that I have in my files SF-mystery-fantasy
mags that sold for 10^ or 15^, published in the early 40’s,
which would put to shame most of those selling for 35^ today.
But I don’t mean so much the price — rather, it’s the contents,
their quality and variety. Especially when taken into con-
sideration that juveniles, escapists and such constitute the
majority of SF readers. Therefore, the return of letters,
fanzine columns, reviews, etc., already solves a good part of
the problem. No, the answer to all of it isn’t to include a pair
of 3-D glasses with each issue; nor is it selling Captain Video
beany caps, or buttons, or memberships in the Ivar Jorgensen
SF fan club. The answer to it all isn’t too hard at all, and as
Sgt. Joe Friday would say, “You figure it out.”
In reviving the Letters Department as you’re now doing,
the best way of not making others regret it’s back again is by
keeping the letters of controversial, stimulating, even radical
mode, so long as they don’t get out of hand with crackpot or
126
AMAZING STORIES
“mystery” discussions. And, of course, letters sure of anaes-
thetizing readers into quick boredom are those which “rate”
the magazine from cover to cover, i.e., “This ish had a bad
cover. The stories I liked best are in the following order with
my reasons for selecting same. . . .” Kept to 100 to 150 words,
such letters may not be entirely objectionable, however. Mean-
while, I find that while a letter, like that of Mr. Spalding’s in
the March number, may be welcome, being that it pertains to
the realm of current findings and provable research, beware
nonetheless ! It’s those which are prone to follow from various
cultists or others having an axe to grind that often get out of
hand, especially when they verge between unaccepted or dis-
proved theories or the babblings of some sect at the foot of
Mt. Shasta.
But for those who feel that religious, social, political, and
various world problems can be solved or analyzed vicariously
through a SF mag’s letter section (as too often seems to be the
case), a few day or night extension courses — either for credit
or under an “adult attendance” program — would be far more
beneficial to say the least. Numerous — I should say practi-
cally all — colleges offer such a service. It’s highly regrettable,
though, that all too many prefer groping for learning usually
along a harder, tougher course than taking the more approved,
easier ways.
Calvin Thomas Beck
20 Woodcliff Ave., Hudson Heights, N. J.
% You don’t go fonvard by going hack, Senor Beck. The
change from pulp format to digest came about when readers
showed a preference for the less bulky type of magazine and
book. Money buys less today; the 35^ of 1955 is less in value
than the two-bits of 19i6. Stories are what the authors send
to the editor, the latter takes the best he can get for the price
he pays. No editor tur-ns down the best story submitted and
takes the second best. N etvsdealers literally hide the few old-
style pulps being distributed today. If we, and other pub-
lishers, thought a return to the old format would raise per-
centage of sales — back it would come! . . , We intend to use
all types of letters which our readers take the trouble to
write. Controversial missives — and missiles — are doubly wel-
come . — ED.
. . . OR SO YOU SAY
127
Dear Mr. Browne:
It is a distinct pleasure to announce that preliminary ar-
rangements have been completed for one of science-fiction’s
major events of 1955: The First Annual Southeastern Science
Fiction Conference. This affair, the first in the South in many
years, will be held April 2nd and 3rd at the Dinkier Plaza
Hotel, Atlanta, Georgia.
All Southern readers are invited to attend, as well as those
fi'om the Northern cities, as Cleveland, New York and Cin-
cinnati are planning to attend. ... At this time it is too early
to announce just who will be there, but many prominent
writers are expected. It can be stated that Wilson Tucker
will be master of ceremonies at the banquet.
The cost of the entire affair (including normal expenses)
will be a $1.00 registration fee which should be sent to Ian
Macauley, 57 East Park Lane, Atlanta 5, Ga. This $1.00 will
entitle you to all the pre-convention publicity notices and will
help defray preliminary expenses.
Robert A. Madle
Publicity Chairman
1620 Anderson St., Charlotte, N. C.
• Hope the Convention is a smashing success, Bob . — ED.
Dear Howard :
Fifth Anniversary Fanvet Convention, Sunday, April 17,
1955, at Werdermann’s Hall, 3rd Avenue at East 16th Street,
New York, N. Y. Most New York science/fantasy editors,
authors, artists, and readers will attend. Program starts at
1 :00 P.M., doors open at 12:00 noon. Speakers will be editors,
writers, artists. Feature of the day : a super GIANT auction,
which will include original covers and inside illustrations,
books and magazines and rare collector’s items. All profits will
go to the Fantasy Veterans Association to be used to mail
science-fantasy magazines to readers in the U.S. Armed
Forces overseas, and to establish a science-fantasy library in
all Veterans Hospitals in the United States.
James V. Taurasi
137-03 32nd Ave., Flushing 54, N. Y.
• This, we’d say, is a must for everyone in the New York
area. We hope to see all of you there . — ED.
128
AAMZING STORIES
— Continued from Back Cover
WITH
MEMBERSHIP
Think of it! Your Choice of
ANY 3 of These Great New
Science- Fiction Books for only
TMAGINIO — ANY 3 of Ihcso _
jot-propolled Science-Fiotion d
books — YOURS FOR ONLY’ ^
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to introduce you to the now Science- '
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the cream of new science-fiction bestsellers for only $1
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cost $2.50, $.3, and up in original publishers’ editions.
Each month’s selection is described in advance. You
take only those books you really want — as few as
four a year, if you wish.
SEND NO MONEY — Take your pick of any 3 of the new
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only $1. Two are your gift books for joining; the other is your
first selection. This offer may be withdrawn at any time. So
mail coupon now to : SCIENCE-FICTION BOOK CLUB, Dept. ZO-5-6,
Garden City, N. Y,
WHICH 3 ^1^?
SCIENCE-FICTION BOOK CLUB
Dept. ZD-5-6, Garden City, New York
Please ritsh me the 3 books checked below, as my gift books and
first selection. Hill me only $l for all three (plus small shipping
ctiarge), and enroll me as a member of the Scieiice-Piction Hook
( lub. livery month send me the ( lub’s free bulletin, “Things to
Come,” so that I may decide whether or not I wish to receive the
coming montlily selection described therein. Tor each book I
accept, I will pay only SI plus shipping. I do not have to take a
book every month (only four during time I am a member) — and
1 may resign at any time after accepting four selections.
SPECIAL NO RISK GUARANTEE: If not delighted, I may return
all l)ooUs in 7 days, pay notliing and tliis membership will be
cancelled.
□ The Altered Ego
LJ Astounding Anthology
fj Best From Fantasy & Science-Fiction
U Caves of Steel
Name
Address
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Selection price in Canada $1.10 plus shipping
Address Science-fdetion Club, 105 Hond St., Toronto 2
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THE ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-
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iivod .300 years; and many otliers.
MISSION OF GRAVITY, by Ilal
C/e/»?en f — f ' h a s . Lackland
MUST explore tlu* planet Mesk-
lin. But force of gia\'ity is so
powerful that a fall of a few
inc'hi's can pnivdcr a human!
THE ALTERED EGO, by Jerry
Sohl — 2040 A.l). Scientists can
restore ch'ad men to life! But
wlion Bradley Kemi)ton is re-
stored — he finds liimself in
the body of an insane killer!
A MIRROR FOR OBSERVERS, by
Etlfiar I‘aufibttrn — Angelo
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earth — or he can sa\-e it. But
it’s not U)) to liini to d(‘cid<‘! I'lie
M.'MITIANS have him in their
power — and TIIUY decide!
THE CAVES OF STEEL, by Isaac
i.siintiv — Robots are tin' most t ^
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he’s given a robot as a pai tner! ^
WILD TALENT, b y Wilsryn Tucker
— From his his '‘-out, l*aul Breen
cotdd read tlie minds of enemy
agents anyw'hend Thonlielearned
that IIL was about to be killed.
ICKANY
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If ACrlVll’^
Which of These Top Science-Fiction
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RAY BRADBURY ISAAC ASIMOV
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